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POEMS 



LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. O. C. BARLEY. 



EDITED BY M. OLIVER DAVIDSON. 




NEW YC^iRK : 

PUBLISHED BY HURD AND HOUGHTOxN. 

CamftnUgr: EtbrrstUr ^3rriS^. 

1871. 



V. 




Washvh$- 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S70, by 

M. Oliver Davidson, 
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at W'asiiington. 



RIVERSIDE, CAMHRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY 

H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Introductory , • '^'' 

Amir Khan i 

Chicomico i8 

Miscellaneous Pieces: — 

An Acrostic 43 

Charity 44 

On the Death ok Queen Caroline 45 

A Hero's Dust 46 

The Evening Spirit . • 47 

To Science ....'. 48 

Pleasure ' . • • .48 

The Good Shepherd 49 

Lines, written under the Promise of Reward . . . 50 

To the Memory of Henry Kirk White . . . . 51 

Stilling the Waves 51 

A Song (in Imitation of the Scotch) 52 

Exit from Egyptian Bondage 54 

The Last Flower of the Garden . • . . . . 56 

Ode to Fancy 57 

The Blush ' . 58 

A Song 60 

On an ^olian Harp 62 

The Coquette 63 

On the Death of an Infant 65 

Reflections on crossing Lake Champlain in the Steamship 

"Phoenix" 67 

The Star of Liberty 68 



\ 



n CONTENTS. 

PACK 

On Solitude 70 

The Destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah .... 71 

The Wee Flower of the Heather 73 

On Reading a Fragment called " The Flower of the Forest " 74 
The Parting of Decourcy and Wilhei.mine . • • • 75 

An Address to my Muse 81 

The Mermaid 82 

On the Birth of a Sister 83 

A Dream 84 

To my Sister 86 

Cupid's Bower 88 

The Family Timk-imece 90 

On the Fxecutio.n of Mary Queen of Scots . . . .92 

Ruth's Answer to Naomi 94 

David and Jonathan 95 

The Sick-bed 96 

Byron 97 

The Bachelor .... 98 

On the Grew of a Vessel who were found Dead at Sea 100 

Woman's Love • 102 

To a Lady whose Singing resembled that of .\n Absent Sister 104 
On seeing a Picture of the Blessed Virgin Mary, painted 

several Centuries since 106 

American Poetry 109 

Headache no 

To a Star in 

Song of Victory, on the Death of Goliath . . . .112 

The Indian Chief and Conconay 113 

The Mother's Lament for her Infant 116 

On the Motto of a Seal iiS 

Shakespeare 119 

To a Lady recovering from Sickness 120 

The Vision . . . , .121 

On seeing at a Concert the Public Performance of a Female 

Dwarf 124 

Alonzo and Imanei 126 

To Margaret's Eye 128 

A Song 129 

Tv/i light ....■..• 130 



CONTENTS. 



Ul 



PAGE 

The White Maid of the Rock 131 

Habakkuk III. 6. 133 

Love, Joy, and Pleasure 134 

O that the Eagle's Wing were mine 138 

The Smile of Innocence 140 

To MY Mother 142 

Sabrina, a Volcanic Island, which appeared and disappeared 

among the Azores in 171 i 144 

The Prophecy . 145 

Prophecy II 147 



Prophecy III. 
Feats of Death 
Auction Extraordinary 
The " Guardian Angel " 
To the Vermont Cadets 
To my Friend and Patron, 
Morning .... 
To a Friend, whom i have 
Modesty .... 
The Yellow Fever . 
EuiNS OF Palmyra 
The Wide World is Drear 
Farewell to Miss E. B. 
Death .... 



M- 



NOT SEEN 



Eso 



SINCE MY Childhood 



150 

152 

154 

156 

157 

158 

160 • 

161 

162 

164 

166 

168 

169 

A View of Death 170 

Rob Roy's Reply to Francis Osbaldistone . . . .172 

On the Death of the Beautiful Mrs. . . . .173 

Y Dear Mother in Sickness -175 

ndar Burial Service — versified 176 

The Grave 177 

The Army of Israel at the Foot of Mount Sinai . . 178 

The Garden of Gethsemane 180 

The Tempest God 181 

To A Departing Friend 182 

Maritorne; or, the Pirate of Mexico 183 

America 193 

Lines addressed to a Cousin 196 

On seeing a Young Lady at her Devotions .... 197 
To A Young Lady, whose Mother was insane from her Birth 199 



iv CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Fear of Madness 201 

My Last fAREWKLL to my Harp 202 

Specimens of Prose Composition: — 

Columbus 203 

Alphonso in Search of Learning 206 

Sensibility 212 

The Holy Writings 213 

Charity 215 

Remarks on the Immorality of the Stage . . . .217 

Contemplation of the Heavens 219 

The Origin of Chivalry 221 

Biography of Lucretia Maria Davidson .... 223 

Notes to Amir Khan 269 



^- 



113 
'6 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



V Portrait of Lucretia Maria Davidson — Engraved in sled by A. H. 
Ritchie. 

^ Portrait of L. D. Davidson, U. S. A. — Engraved in steel by A. II. 
Ritch ie 

FRONTISPIECES 

^ View of Plati'SBURG, from a Photograph ; engraved by J. S. Harley. 

VIGNETTE. 

TEN ILLUSTRATIONS ACCOMPANYING THE POEMS, FROM DRAIV- 
INGS BY F. O. C. DA RLE Y. 

Amir Khan — Engraved by J. A. Bogert. 

FACING PAGE 

" O speak, Amreta ! but one word " . . . • 5 ' 

When starting with a sudden blow. 

He oped a portal dark and low 7 V 

" Mark me ! " he cried ; " this pensive flower, 
Gathered at midnight's magic hour, 
Will charm each passion of the breast. 
And calm each throbbing nerve to rest " ... 8 

The maiden sunk upon his breast, , 

And deep and lengthened was her rest ! ... 16 

Chicomico — Engraved by J. A. Bogert. 

The angel of mercy, the herald of grace 

Knelt the sorrowful daughter of Hillis-ad-joe . . 22 ^ 

Charity — Engraved by y. A. Bogert. 

Though I to feed the poor my goods bestow . . . 44 ^ 



vi LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

The Good Shepherd — Engraved by J- A. Bogert. 

FACING PAGE 

1/ 



FACING PAGE 

But when that lamb is found, what joy is seen 

Depicted on the careful shepherd's face . . -49 



A Song — Engraved by J. S. Harley. 

Wha is it that caemeth sae blithe V 

And sae swift ........ 52 

The Family Time-piece — Engraved by J. A. Bogert. 

And watched thy finger, with a youthful glee . . .90 

Feats of Death — Engraved by J. S. Harley. 

I paused in my pathway, for beauty was there . .150 




INTRODUCTORY. 



" A thing of beauty is a joy forever : 
Its loveliness increases ; it will never 
Pass into nothingness." 

In bringing out at this time a new edition of the 
poems of one of the sweetest and most intellectual spir- 
its that this country ever knew ; in introducing to an 
entirely new generation of readers the writings of one 
who for forty-five years has lain beneath the lilies and 
the violets in a quiet country church-yard on the borders 
of Lake Champlain, we feel that we are performing a 
worthy act which cannot but be fully appreciated and 
acknowledged. 

The simple fact that a young girl of less than seven- 
teen summers, should have written the poems contained 
in this volume, was, and would be even at this time, some- 
thing remarkable, especially when we remember that in 
those days there were but few female poets in the land, 
and none who could have laid claim, at so early an age, to 
such tender and thoughtful effusions. It is sad to think 
that this young girl, so talented and so filled with inspi- 
ration ; who seemed to be imbued with the very spirit and 



viii .INTRODUCTORY. 

essence of poesy, and who gave such excellent promise 
and token of a glorious career, should have so early 
passed away. Had she lived until womanhood, who 
can tell what she might have accomplished ! With- 
out being a great poet, she yet possessed all the attri- 
butes of one, and many of her earliest productions con- 
tained evidences of poetic power, which needed only 
culture and proper guidance — which, had her health and 
years permitted, she would have received — to have made 
her the peeress of the fairest poets of the land. As it is, 
we can only speak of her as a child — a wondrous child, 
though ; sensitive to excess, and thoughtful beyond her 
years. Precocious, too, though not through study, but 
by nature ; she seemed intuitively to know things which 
puzzle ofttimes the learned ; though where or how she 
gained her knowledge, was a mystery even to those 
by whom she was daily surrounded, — her parents, her 
teachers, and her friends. 

Her productions were not, as one might think, the 
result entirely of laborious work ; many of them were 
born on the inspiration of the moment, when the divine 
afflatus was full upon her ; and yet others were the result 
of careful thought and study ; but however this was, their 
composition was always to her a heartfelt pleasure. Other 
children of her years would find their chief enjoyment in 
play ; but she was never happier than when engaged in 
composing a poem which was as much a recreation to 
her as it would have been a task to most others. 

As a poet, Lucretia Davidson possessed a depth of 



INTRODUCTORY. IX 

thought, a delicacy of expression, a tenderness of senti- 
ment, and an appreciation of melody rarely to be met. 
She had a fine fancy, a quick imagination, a quiet and 
unobtrusive humor, and underlying all a foundation of 
thorough and unwavering thoughtfulness. Her writings 
are marked by grace, ease, and refinement, and evince 
not only a catholic but a classical taste. Her heart as 
well as her mind, is apparent in her compositions ; and 
soul, as well as intellect, permeates and gives character to 
her productions. 

But the genius of Lucretia Davidson has been ac- 
knowledged by writers greatly distinguished in literature, 
not only in this country but in England. Robert 
Southey, one of the most brilliant critics and accom- 
plished poets, wrote in praise of her productions years 
ago, in the " London Quarterly Review." With a full- 
ness of expression, creditable to his heart as well as to 
his understanding, he said : "In these poems there is 
enough of originality, enough of aspiration, enough of 
conscious energy, enough of growing power, to warrant 
any expectations, however sanguine, which the patrons 
and the friends and parents of the deceased could have 
formed." 

It is not our intention to write a biography of Lucretia 
Davidson. This has, as will be seen by referring to the 
appendix at the close of this volume, already been done 
so fully and successfully, by a distinguished pen, — that 
of Miss Sedgwick, — as to leave little for any one else to 
do. We purpose, therefore, to add only a few simple 



X IN TROD UCTOR Y. 

facts, obtained from her only surviving brother, M. O. 
Davidson, Esq., of Westchester County, in relation to 
other members of the Davidson family — her mother 
and a brother, both now deceased — who possessed 
in no small degree the divine art of clothing their 
thoughts in the garb of poesy. 

Of Mrs. Davidson we need only say that she was a 
woman of elegant culture and refinement, gifted with a 
superior mind, and possessing great beauty of face and 
figure. For many years previous to her death, which 
occurred in 1844, she had been in delicate health, and 
was at times a confirmed invalid. Between the mother 
and her two gifted daughters the most perfect sympathy 
of tastes, feelings, and pursuits existed. Their hearts 
and minds were indissolubly twined together, and a 
more beautiful relationship of both a maternal and filial 
character never existed. 

It was to Mrs. Davidson that Mrs. Caroline Southey, 
the wife of the laureate, addressed the following touch- 
ing lines, written at Greta Hall, Keswick, Cumberland, 
England, and bearing date April loth, 1842 : — 

TO THE MOTHER OF LUCRETIA AND MARGARET 

DAVIDSON. 

O lady, greatly favored, greatly tried ! 
Was ever glory, ever grief like thine, 
Since hers, the mother of the Man divine, 

The perfect One — the Crowned — the Crucified ? 

Wonder and joy, high hopes and chastened pride 



INTRODUCTOKY. xi 

Thrilled thee ; intently watching, hour b}^ hour, 

The fast unfolding of each human flower, 
In hues of more than earthly brilliance dyed. 
And then — the blight, the f;xdiiig, the first fear, 

I'he sickening hope, the doom, the end of all : 
Heart withering, if indeed all ended here. 

But from the dust, the coffin, and the pall. 
Mother bereaved, thy tearful eyes upraise. 
Mother of angels, join their songs of praise ! 

As we have before said, a son of this gifted and ac- 
complished woman was also a poet and one of no slio-ht 
ability. For several years previotis to his death, he con- 
tributed to the pages of the " Southern Literary Mes- 
senger " and other periodicals of the day. To him we 
are indebted for the completion of a poem, " The Part- 
ing of Decourcy and Wilhelmine," left unfinished by 
Lucretia at the time of her death, and found by her 
mother among her manuscripts. That portion of it — 
from the seventeenth to the last stanza inclusive —men- 
tioned in the original edition of the poems as being 
furnished by another hand, is from the pen of Lieutenant 
Davidson. It is marked by greater vigor, and displays 
a fuller acquaintance with the subject — carrying out, 
however, the same idea initiated by Lucretia — than she, 
with all her innate knowledge and appreciation of the 
same, could have hoped to have given to it. Indeed, it 
breathes in every line a soldierly spirit. 

A brief sketch of this brother of Lucretia, with a) 
I selection from his writings, will not, we trust, be unin- 
teresting to the readers of this volume. 



XU INTRO D UC rOR Y. 

Lieut. L. P. Davidson, U. S. A., was born in 1816, at 
Plattsburg, N. Y. He was educated for Middlebury Col- 
lege under the care of the Rev. Canon Townsend, Rector 
of the parish of St. George and St. Thomas, a scholar of 
rare abilities, who is still living at Clarenceville, Canada 
East. Young Davidson, at an early age, became partial 
to classical lore. He translated and versified several of 
the books of Virgil, and filled a number of manuscript 
volumes with original poems and translations from both 
Latin and Greek poets. 

In the year 1831 he entered Middlebury College, where 
he remained two years, until 1833, when he was trans- 
ferred to the United States Military Academy at West 
Point, appointed at large by General Jackson, through 
the representations of the late General Macomb, to 
whom his talents had greatly recommended him. He 
graduated in 1837, ^^ the same class with Sedgwick, 
Hooker, Vogdes, Benham, and other officers subse- 
quently greatly distinguished in the Mexican war and 
the war of the great Rebellion. On the formation of the 
1st regiment of dragoons, at his own request, he was 
assigned to this branch of the service, and immediately 
entered upon active duty on the western frontier. 

While in the service he did much to elevate the moral 
as well as the military standing of the soldier, and, 
among other good works, advocated the establishment 
of " post libraries," and wrote several songs of a stirring 
character, in praise of a soldier's life, especially such a 
life as could only be found in the excitement and dangers 



INTRODUCTORY. xiu 

incident to the far West. These songs were, and some 
of them doubtless still are, sung about the camp-fires 
of the cavalry ; while others were for the recruiting 
service, and ofttimes effectively served the intended pur- 
pose, inducing many a brave fellow to enlist under the 
flag of his country. A favorite one was called " The 
Light Dragoon." It was dedicated to Lieut. A. R. 
Johnston, and published, if we mistake not, by the old 
firm of Firth and Hall, of New York, in 1841. Although 
the dragoon branch of the service has been abolished 
and the cavalry substituted in its stead, this song, with 
its dashing chorus, has not been allowed to pass away. 
It read as follows : — 

THE LIGHT DRAGOON. 

I. 

Good cheer, my steed, 

Let thy headlong speed, 
Dash the dew from the prairie grass, 
Shrink not^ my horse, 
Let the hills fall back, 
As the ranks of our squadrons pass. 

Then up, gallant steed, the wild wind's speed 

Is but slow to thy headlong flight, 
And we'll rein up soon, and the light dragoon. 
With his charger will sleep to-night. 

II. 

At the fall of night, 
In the gray twilight. 
When I've combed thy tangled mane, 



xiv INTRODUCTORY. 

'Neath the smile of the moon, 
Then the Hght dragoon 
Will lie down by his steed again. 
Then ud, gallant steed, etc. 

III. 
When sleep is done, 
And the rising sun 
Shall have burnished thy glossy hair, 
To horse again, 
And we'll scour the plain, 
And we'll beat up the red man's lair. 
Then up, gallant steed, etc. 

It is to be regretted that Lieut. Davidson should have 
destroyed, shortly before his death, nearly his entire 
collection of manuscript poems ; for, if we may trust the 
judgment of those of his friends who had read them, 
many possessed more than a common degree of merit. 
From a few which escaped the flames, we select one, not 
so much for the poetic skill displayed in its composition, 
as for the interest of the story connected with it, and 
which serves to introduce an incident in the life of its 
writer. 

Lieut. Davidson possessed a favorite charger named 
'•' Chicago," which had carried him on many a weary 
march, and through many a dangerous defile in the In- 
dian country. For its docility and almost human intel- 
ligence, it was fondly loved by the soldier, who regarded 
it with a like affection that the Arab of the desert is 
said to have for his steed. 



INTRODUCTORY. xv 

In one of the wild skirmishes with the Indians, " Chi- 
cago " was killed by an arrow, and in falling confined 
his rider to the ground. The savages swept down to 
secure the tempting scalp, but were arrested by the fall 
of their leader, shot by a sergeant, also dismounted, who 
ran to the assistance of his officer, and delivered his 
fire over the dead body of the horse. 

The Lieutenant, mourning the loss of his valued steed 
and companion, after the fight, to prevent him from be- 
coming food for the wild animals of the prairie, buried 
him where he fell. These lines, written in pencil on the 
back of a blank requisition for holsters, bridle-bits, etc., 
were found, after Lieut. Davidson's death, in a pocket 
of his waistcoat : — 

EPITAPH ON MY HORSE- 
And thou art dead, my noble steed ! 

The duties of a friend are done : 
Thou wert the soldier's friend, indeed, 

And nobly has thy course been run. 
That flashing eye, that lofty head, 
Are dim, and spiritless, and dead, 

And stiffened are thy limbs of speed. 

O ! if the bugle"s stirring blast, 

With war's enlivening influence rife, 

Could usher back the moments past, 
And raise the slumbering dead to life : 

How quickly would'st thou prance again, 

And limbs, and nerves, and sinews strain, 
To taste the raptures of the strife. 



XVI INTRODUCTORY. 

But round thy grave the western storm, 
With music harsh, and sad, and drear, 

Will whistle o'er thy mouldering form, 
And howl its anthem o'er thy bier. 

The panther's fangs shall harm thee not — 

The prairie wolf shall pass the spot ; 
Too noble game for them lies here ! 

Quite different in its character, and evidently more 
carefully written, are the lines entitled " Longings for 
the West,'' composed a few months before his death ; 
but not published in the " Southern Literary Messenger" 
(from the pages of which we take them) until after his 
decease, namely, in the number for February, 1843, 
where they are prefaced by complimentary remarks from 
the editor. 

LONGINGS FOR THE WEST. 

! that the poet's mystic power were mine, 
Harmonious words in thrilling verse to join ; 
What sweeter music than to strike the chords, 
To paint the beauties of the West in words, 
And sing in praise that sweetest spot of earth, 
Home of the wild and free, — dear Leavenworth. 
Be still, my heart ! let mem'ry's touch divine, 
Bring back past joys to glad this soul of mine. 
And spread the kindly veil o'er doubt and pain. 

1 would not call back grief's but pleasure's form again. 
How oft I've sat in melancholy mood. 

Where mad Missouri rolls his reckless flood, 
To watch the mighty stream with wond'ring eye, 



INTROD UCTOR Y. x 

Born of a mountain spring to swell the sea, 

And to man's life compare the aspiring wave, — 

" Is born, is great," then thunders to the grave. 

I turn my eyes, the sun's departing beam 

Gilds yonder hill with more than earthly gleam ; 

It glows like Sinai's mount, then f;ides to gloom. 

Ambitious, soaring child, it typifies thy doom. 

Oft when the morn smiled bright o'er frosty ground, 

And startling horn had waked the slumbering hound, 

I've sprung to horse, and with the shouting train. 

Chased fox and wolf o'er hill and dale and plain, 

Till tired with sport I've checked my headlong steed, 

Where some bright stream winds through the flow'ry mead, 

And thrown me down, where sunbeams never come, 

To rest, to sleep, perchance to dream of home, 

Or watch my horse with eager ear and eye. 

Start at the hounds' deep bay, and hunters' distant cry : 

Days, weeks and months, I've coursed the prairie's plain, 

Garden of God ! the red man's rich domain — 

Oft chilled by cold, or scorched by summer's sun, 

From morn till night, till many a march was done, 

Then laid me down in some wild Indian's camp. 

The earth my resting-place, cold, drear, and damp, 

To watch the stars — to mark the sullen owl. 

To catch the cadence of the wolf's sad howl, 

Or list the tales of scout and foray far. 

Of skulking Pawnee band, or murderous Delaware, — 

O ! could I catch that martial strain again, 

The band's wild music thrilling through each vein. 

While deep-mouthed trumpets rich alarums pour ; 

'Twere worth a life to hear those sounds once more. 



X viii INTROD UC TOR Y. 

O ! could I see one moment, scan again 

The bright parade, the soldiers' glittering train, 

Watch every movement, mark with rapture's eye, 

Each marshalled squadron as its ranks pass by, 

And if at speed the mimic field they scour, 

To join the rushing ranks, and shout the charge once more ! 

Spirit of memory, gentler pictures bring, 

And teach my Muse of social joys to sing : 

Of winter evenings, long from close of day. 

With comrades passed in converse grave and gay, 

While tales of daring, wear the lengthened night, 

Of border warfare, or of Indian fight : 

Teach me to sing the glad and social dance. 

Where waltzers whirl and bright eyes witching glance, 

While friends in cities mourn our hapless lot. 

As banished exiles here, sad, desolate, forgot. 

After five years' active service on the plains, during 
which time he was exposed to many dangers and hard- 
ships, his health began to fail him, and he was obliged 
to ask a furlough. His native air, however, and the 
quietude of home-life failed to restore to him his fading 
health ; and hoping to find abroad what he could not in 
this country, he visited Europe, explored Greece, where 
were laid the scenes of his favorite poets, and also travelled 
in Malta and Syria, returning through Italy and France. 
But all to no purpose ; and, with feebler steps and a more 
wasted frame than when he bade farewell to home and 
friends, he came back only to die. His death took place 



INTRODUCTORY. xix 

in June, 1842, and his remains were interred in the 
burial-ground at Saratoga. 

The following lines, slightly varied from a stanza of 
the original poem — "The Mother's Lament" — written 
by Lucretia, are inscribed on his tombstone : — 

" Calmly he rests on a bosom far colder 

Than that which once pillowed his health -blushing cheek ; 
Calmly he rests there, to silently moulder, 
No tear to disturb him, no sigh to awake." 

Lieutenant Davidson was possessed of a high, chivalric 
nature. He was brave, magnanimous, and full of charity. 
He was of that type and mould of character of which 
soldiers are made, and General Scott never spoke more 
truthfully than when, on hearing of his death, he said : 
" The army has lost one of its brightest ornaments." 
Had he lived, he would doubtless have attained high 
rank in the army, and been honored as a patriot, a 
soldier, and a man. 

His portrait, engraved on steel, graces this volume. 

In addition to what we have already said in relation to 
Lucretia Davidson, we desire to quote a few remarks 
written by Mrs. Davidson, in her dedication to Wash- 
ington Irving of a former edition of these poems, pub- 
lished in 1 84 1, detailing the circumstances under which 
several of the poems were written. 

" I have felt," Mrs. Davidson wrote, " much diffidence 
in presenting these manuscripts to the public, in their 
present imperfect and unfinished state ; but the circum- 



XX INTRODUCTORY. 

Stances under which many of them were written, con- 
demned, and partly destroyed by herself, as if unworthy 
to hold a place among her papers, her extreme youth and 
loveHness, and the melancholy fact of her dying before 
she had time to complete others, will, I trust, make them 
not less interesting to the reader of taste and feeling. 

" The allegory of ^ Alphonso in search of Learning,' 
was written at the age of eleven. It was suggested to 
her infant mind by seeing a cupola erected upon the 
Plattsburg Academy, upon which was painted the Tem- 
ple of Science. 

" The poem of ' Chicomico ' was written after a severe 
illness which confined me many months to my bed, 
during which time Lucretia made a resolution that if I 
ever should recover, she would give up her ' scribbling,' 
as she called it, and devote herself to me ; at my earnest 
entreaty, however, she resumed her pen, and the first 
thing she produced was ' Chicomico,' prefaced by the fol- 
lowing lines : — 

*' ' I had thought to have left thee, my sweet harp, forever ; 
To have touched thy dear strings again — never — O, never. 
To have sprinkled oblivion's dark waters upon thee, 
To have hung thee where wild winds would hover around thee ; 
But the voice of affection hath called forth one strain, 
Which, when sung, I will leave thee to silence again.' 

" This beautiful tribute of affection has ever been one 
of the most cherished relics of my child, and I deeply 
regret that the irregular and unconnected state of the 
manuscript obliges me to withhold the whole of the first 
part. 



INTRODUCTORY. xxi 

" The ballad of * Decourcy and Wilhelmine ' was writ- 
ten for a weekly paper, which she issued for the amuse- 
ment of the family. It was dated from ' The Little 
Corner of the World,' edited by the Story-Teller, and 
dedicated to Mamma. After a time it was discontin- 
ued, and to my extreme regret destroyed. The frag- 
ment inserted in the collection, is one of the very few 
remnants found among her manuscripts ; the first six- 
teen verses are purely original ; the sequel was supplied 
by a friend, it being deemed too fine to be rejected for 
want of mere filling out. Lucretia's diffidence, and the 
apprehension that the circumstances might transpire 
or the papers be read by some friend out of the family, 
was, I believe, the sole reason why she discontinued 
and destroyed them. This mutilated paper, and a part 
of ' Rodin Hall,' are all that remain of the ' Story-Teller.' 
" Her sweetly playful disposition is strongly manifested 
in her ' Petition of the Old Comb.' She had retired to 
her room with her books and pen, where she had spent 
several days. Feeling a desire to see how she was get- 
ting on, I went to her room. As I passed through the 
hall, I saw a sealed letter directed to me, lying at the 
foot of the stairs ; I opened it, and found it contained 
the 

"PETITION OF A POOR OLD COMB." 

'• ' Dear mistress, I am old and poor, 
My teeth decayed and gone ; 
O, give me but one moment's rest, 
For, mark, I'm tott'ring down. 



INTRODUCTOR Y. 

" ' Thy raven locks, for many a day, 
I've bound around thy brow ; 
And now that I am old and lame, 
I prithee let me go. 

" ' Have I not, many a weary hour, 
Peep'd o'er thy book or pen, 
And seen what this poor mangled form 
Will ne'er behold again ? 

" ' A faithful servant I have been, 
But ah ! my day is past ; 
And all my hope, and all my wish, 
Is liberty at last. 

" ' Mark but the glittering, well-filled shelf 
Where my companions lie ; 
Are they not fairer than myself, 
And younger far than I ? 

" ' O ! then in pity hie thee there. 
Where thousands wait thy call. 
And twine one in thy raven hair. 
To shroud my shameful fall. 

" ' My days are hast'ning to their close, 
Crack ! crack ! goes every tooth ; 
A thousand pains, a thousand woes. 
Remind me of my youth. 

" ' Adieu then — in distress I die — 
My last hold fails me now ; 



INTRO D UCTOR Y- xxiii 

Adieu, and may thy elf locks fly 
Forever 'round thy brow.' 

" On reading it, I went up-stairs, and fomid her en- 
veloped in books and manuscripts. Several large folios 
lay open on the table, to which she seemed to have been 
referring ; while books, papers, and scraps of poetry were 
strewn in confusion over the carpet. Her luxuriant 
hair had escaped from its confinement, and hung in rich 
glossy curls upon her neck and shoulders, while the 
superannuated comb lay at her feet. As I hastily en- 
tered the room, she manifested some mortification, that I 
should have surprised her in the midst of so much con- 
fusion, and, throwing her handkerchief over her papers, 
laughingly asked what I thought of the Petition t I ad- 
vised her to send directly to the ' well-filled glittering 
shelf,' as I had no desire to see the curse denounced 
verified, or her 

"Elf locks fly 
Forever 'round her brow." 

" ' Maritorne, or the Pirate of Mexico,' was written in 
Albany, during her stay at the Institution of Miss 
Gilbert, at a time when she was ill, in the brief space of 
three weeks, while getting daily lessons like any other 
school-girl. During that period, she also produced sev- 
eral fugitive pieces. She had been absent from home 
but six weeks when I was summoned to attend her : she 
had then been confined to her bed three weeks. On the 
morning after my arrival, she desired me to collect the 



XXIV INTRO D UC TOR V. 

scattered sheets of ' Maritorne,' and expressed much sor- 
row when she found that some were missing. She told 
me, with tears, that she feared she could never supply 
the loss, and said, ' Do, mamma, take care of what re- 
mains : it is thus far the best thing I ever wrote.' 

"" After her death, in her portfolio, which her nurse told 
me she used every day, sitting in bed, supported by pil- 
lows, I found the ' Last Farewell to my Harp,' and the 
' Fear of Madness,' both written in a feeble, irregular 
hand, and evidently under a state of strong mental ex- 
citement. By their side lay the unfinished head of a 
Madonna, copied from a painting executed several cen- 
turies ago, and with the drawing lay also the unfinished 
poem suggested by the painting : — 

' Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell.' 

" In the ' Last Farewell to my Harp,' the presentiment 
of her death, if I may so term it, is strongly portrayed, 
mingled with the feeling of presumption which she often 
manifested in having ' dared to gaze 

' Upon the lamp which never can expire, 
The undying, wild, poetic fire.' 

"There is something extremely touching in the last 
stanzas : — 

' And here, my harp, we part forever ; 
I'll waken thee again — O ! never ; 
Silence shall chain thee cold and drear, 
And thou shall calmly slumber here ! ' 

" ' The Fear of Madness.' — The reader will find his 
sympathies all awakened upon perusing this unfinished 



INTRODUCTORY. xxv 

fragment from the pen of the lovely sufferer. It leaves 
too painful a sensation upon the mind to admit a com- 
ment." 

It only remains for us to add to this slight sketch, that 
the author of this volume of poems died in 1825, just a 
month before her seventeenth birthday. The following 
inscription appears on a modest marble monument 
erected over her remains in the family burial-ground at 
Plattsburg : — 

LUCRETIA M.DAVIDSON 

WAS BORN SEPT. 2/, 1808, 

AND 

DIED AUGUST 27, 1825, 

AGED 16 YEARS AND II MONTHS 

" Here innocence and beauty lies, whose breath 

Was snatched by early, not untimely death." — PoPE. 

On another side of the stone appear these beautiful 
lines from the pen of Mr. Bryant : — 

" In the cold, moist earth we laid her, 
When the forests cast the leaf, 
And we wept that one so lovely 
Should have a life so brief; 

" Yet not unmeet it was that one, 
Like that young friend of ours. 
So gentle and so beautiful, 

Should perish with the flowers." 

The opposite side of the marble bears these words : — 
" This monument was raised as a testimony of affec- 
tion by her mourning father." 



XXVI INTROD UCTOR Y. 

This volume, so handsomely gotten up, and in the 
illustration of which the pencil of a distinguished artist 
has been employed, is a tribute of affection from an only 
surviving brother to the memory of a beloved sister. 

In arranging this book for publication, we have 
brought together, as far as practicable, the miscellaneous 
poems in the order of the years in which they were writ- 
ten ; the first one being dated in 1819, when the author 
was in her eleventh year. It should be understood that 
the date of each year is prefixed to only one of the 
poems ; and all those that follow it, until the next date 
appears, were written during the said named year. 

In the biographical sketch by Miss Sedgwick, we have 
omitted a few paragraphs, not deemed i^elevant, at this 
time, to the complete understanding of Lucretia's life. 
We have also incorporated into the body of the work 
several poems which have heretofore appeared only in 
the pages of the biography. 

It is proper here to state that a new edition of the 
poems of Margaret Davidson, the younger sister, uniform 
with this volume, is in preparation. The works of both 
of these sisters have long been out of print, and we have 
little doubt that these editions will be welcomed by many 
readers : the old, who knew and prized the poets long' 
ago, and the new, to whom their poems will be a fresh 
and beautiful revelation. To them, therefore, we joyfully 
submit this volume. Barry Gray. 

FORDHAM, N. Y., July 25, 1870. 



AMIR KHAN. 



PART I. 

Brightly o'er spire, and dome, and tower, 
The pale moon shone at midnight hour, 
While all beneath her smile of light 
Was resting there in calm delight : 
Evening, with robe of stars, appears. 
Bright as repentant Peri's tears, 
And o'er her turban's fleecy fold 
Night's crescent streamed with rays of gold ; 
While every crystal cloud of heaven 
Bowed as it passed the queen of even. 

Beneath, calm Cashmere's lovely vale ^ 
Breathed perfumes to the sighing gale ; 
The amaranth and tuberose, 
Convolvulus in deep repose, 
Bent to each breeze which swept their bed, 
Or scarcely kissed the dew, and fled ; 
The bulbul, with his lay of love,- 
Sang, 'mid the stillness of the grove ; 
The gulnare blushed a deeper hue,^ 
And trembling shed a shower of dew, 
1 



AMIR KHAN. 

Which perfumed, ere it kissed the ground, 
Each zephyr's pinion hovering round ; 
The lofty plane-tree's haughty brow* 
Glittered beneath the moon's pale glow ; 
And wide the plantain's arms were spread,^ 
The guardian of its native bed. 

Where was Amreta at this hour ? 

Say ! was she slumbering in her bower ? 

Or gazing on this scene of rest, 

Less calm, less peaceful than her breast ? 

Or was she resting in the dream 

Of brighter days, on Fortune's stream ? 

Or was she weeping Friendship broken, 

Or sighing o'er Love's withered token ? 

No ! she was calmly resting there : 
Her eye ne'er spoke of hope nor fear. 
But 'mid the blaze of splendor round, 
Forever bent upon the ground. 
Their long dark lashes hid from view 
The brilliant glances which they threw ; 
Her cheek was neither pale nor red ; 
The rose, upon its summer bed, 
Could never boast so faint a hue — 
So faint, and yet so brilliant too ! 

Though round her Cashmere's incense streamed ; 
Though Persia's gems around her beamed ; 
Though diamonds of Golconda shed 
Their warmest lustre o'er her head ; 



AMIR KHAN. 

Though music killed each fear to sleep, 

Or, like the night-wind o'er the deep, 

Just waking love and calm delight. 

Kindling Hope's watch-fire clear and bright — 

For her, though Cashmere's roses twine 

Together round the parent vine ; 

And though to her, as Cashmere's star, 

Knelt the once haughty Subahdar ; *^ 

Still, still, Amreta gazed unmoved. 

Nor sighed, nor smiled, nor owned she loved ! 

But, like the Parian marble there. 

So bright, so exquisitely fair, 

She seemed by Nature famed to bless, 

Rich in surpassing loveliness. 

But never from those lips of red 

A single syllable had fled. 

Since Amir Khan first blessed the hour ^ 

That placed Amreta in his bower. 

Within that bower, 'mid twining roses, 

Upon whose leaves the breeze reposes. 

She sits unmoved, while round her flow 

Strains of sweet music, sad and low ; 

Or now, in softer numbers breathing, 

A song of love and sorrow wreathing, 

Such strains as in wild sweetness ran 

Through the sad breast of Amir Khan ! 

He loved, — and O ! he loved so well 
That sorrow scarce dared break the spell ; 
Though oft Suspicion whispered near 
One vague, one sadly boding fear. 



AMIR KHAX. 

A fear that Heaven in wrath had made 
That face with seraph-charms arrayed, 
And then denied in mockery there 
To breathe upon a face so fair ! 
Without that spark of heavenly flame, 
Which burns unchanging, still the same ; 
Without that bright ethereal charm ; 
O ! what were beauty's angel form ? 

The breeze as it sweeps o'er the poisonous flower, 

Dripping with night's damp, blistering shower. 

Laden with woe, disease, and death. 

Fading youth's bloom with its passing breath, 

Blighting each flower of various hue. 

Ne'er o'er its fated victim threw 

So dark a shade, a cloud so drear, 

As hovered o'er the Subahdar. 

Cool and refreshing sighs the breeze 

Through the long walk of tzinnar-trees,^ 

And cool upon the water's breast 

The pale moon rocks herself to rest, — 

Yes ! calmer, brighter, cooler far 

Than the fevered brow of the Subahdar ! 

Amreta was fair as the morning beam, 
As it glides o'er the wave of the Wuller's stream,^ 
But O ! she was cold as the marble floor 
That glitters beneath the nightly shower. 

Where was that eye which none could scan, 
Which once belonged to Amir Khan ? 



'^/ff^ 










.y^77: 



AMIR KHAN. 

Where was that voice that mocked the storm ? 
Where was that tall, majestic form ? 
That eye was turned in love and woe 
Upon Amreta's changeless brow ; 
That haughty form was bending low : 
That voice was uttering vow on vow, 
Beneath the lofty plane-tree's shade. 
Before that cold Circassian maid ! 

' O speak, Amreta ! but one word ! 
Let one soft sigh confess I'm heard ! 
Those eyes (than those of yon gazelle 
More bright) a tale of love might tell ! 
Then speak, Amreta ! raise thine eye. 
Blush, smile, or answer with a sigh." 

But 'twas in vain : no sigh, no word 
Told that his humble suit was heard ; 
Veiled 'neath their silken lashes there, 
Her dark eyes glanced no answered prayer ; 
Upon her cheek no blush was straying, 
Around her lip no smile was playing ; 
And calm despair reigned darkly now 
O'er Amir Khan's deep-clouded brow. 

What pity that so fair a form 

Should want a heart with feeling warm ! 

What pity that an eye so bright 

Should beam o'er Reason's clouded night ! 

And like a star on Mahmoud's wave,^*^ 

Should glitter o'er a dreary grave : 



AMIR KHAN. 

A dark abyss — a sunless day, 
An endless night without one ray. 

'Twas at that day, that silent hour, 

When the tall poppy sheds its shower, 

When all on earth, and all on high 

Seemed breathing slumber's sweetest sigh ; 

At that calm hour when Peris love 

To gaze upon the heaven above, 

Whose portals, bright with many a gem. 

Are closed — forever closed on than ; 

'Twas at this silent, solemn hour. 

That, gliding from his summer bower. 

The Subahdar with noiseless step 

Steals like the night-breeze o'er the deep. 

Where glides the haughty Subahdar.^ 
Onward he glides to where afar 
Proud Hirney-Purvet rears his head ^^ 
High above Cashmere's blooming bed. 
And twines his turban's fleecy fold 
With many a brilliant ray of gold. 
Or places on his brow of blue 
The crescent with its silver hue. 

There, 'neath a plantain's sacred shade, 
Which deep, and dark, and widely spread, 
Al Shinar's high prophetic form 
Held secret counsel with the storm ; 
His hand had grasped, with fearless might. 
The mantle of descending night. 



AMIR khan: 

Such matchless skill the prophet knew, 
Such wond'rous feats his hand could do, 
That Persia's realm astonished saw, 
And Cashmere's valley gazed with awe ! 

Low bowed the lofty Amir Khan, 

Before the high and mighty man. 

And bending o'er the Naptha's stream, 

Which onward rolled its fiery gleam. 

The Subahdar in murmurs told 

Of beauteous form, of bosom cold, 

Of rayless eye, of changeless cheek. 

Of tongue which could or would not speak. 

At length the mourner's tale had ceased. 

He crossed his hands upon his breast ; 

He spoke no word, he breathed no sigh, 

But keenly fixed his piercing eye 

Upon Al Shinar's gloomy brow, 

In all the deep despair of woe. 

The Prophet paused ; his eye he raised, 

And stern and earnestly he gazed. 

As if to pierce the sable veil 

Which would conceal the mournful tale ; 

When, starting with a sudden blow, 

He oped a portal dark and low, 

Which shrouded from each mortal eye 

Al Shinar's cavern broad and hif^h ; 

'Twas bright, 'twas exquisitely bright, 

For founts of rich and living light 

There poured their burning treasures forth. 

Which sought again their parent earth. 



AMIR KHAN. 

Rich vases, with sweet incense streaming, 
Mirrors a flood of brilHance beaming. 
Fountain, and bath, and curUng stream, 
At every turn before them beam ; 
And marble pillars, pure and cold. 
And glittering roof, inlaid with gold, 
And gems and diamonds met his view 
In wild and rich profusion too ; 
And had Amreta's smiles been given, 
This place had been the Moslem heaven ! 

The Prophet paused ; while Amir Khan 
Gazed, awe-struck, on the wond'rous man, 
Al Shinar plucked a pale blue flower. 
Which bent beneath the fountain's shower. 
Then slowly turned towards Amir Khan, 
And placed the treasure in his hand, 

" Mark me ! " he cried ; " this pensive flower, 
Gathered at midnight's magic hour. 
Will charm each passion of the breast. 
And calm each throbbing nerve to rest ; 
'Twill leave thy bounding bosom warm. 
Yet set death's seal upon thy form ; 
'Twill leave thee stiff", and cold, and pale, 
A slumberer 'neath an icy veil, 
But still shall Reason's conscious reign 
Unbroken, undisturbed, remain. 
And thou shalt hear, and feel, and know 
Each sigh, each touch, each throb of woe ! 



AMIR KHAN. 

"Go thou ! and if Amreta be 
Worthy of love, and worthy thee, 
When she beholds thee pale and cold, 
Wrapped in the damp sepulchral fold ; 
When her eye wanders for that glow 
Once burning on thy marble brow ; 
Then, if her bosom's icy frame 
Hath ever warmed 'neath passion's flame, 
'Twill heave tumultuous as it glows 
Like Baikal's everlasting throes ; 
And if, to-morrow eve, you press 
This pale cold floweret to your breast, 
Ere morning smiles, its spell will prove 
If that cold heart be worth thy love ! 



PART II. 

There's silence in the princely halls, 
And brightly blaze the lighted walls. 
While clouds of musk and incense rise 
From vases of a thousand dyes, 
And roll their perfumed treasures wide, 
In one luxuriant, fragrant tide ; 
And glittering chandeliers of gold. 
Reflecting fire from every fold, 
Hung o'er the shrouded body there. 
Of Cashmere's once proud Subahdar ! 
The crystal's and the diamond's rays 
Kindled a wide and brilliant blaze ; 
The ruby's blush, the coral's hue, 



AMfR KIT AN. 

By Peris dipped in Henni's dew, 

The topaz' rich and gold an ray, 

The opal's flame, the agate gray, 

The amethyst of violet hue, 

The sapphire with its heavenly blue, 

The snow-white jasper sparkling there 

Near the carbuncle's deepening glare, 

The warm cornelian's blushinsf erlow 

Reflected back the brilliant flow 

Of light, which in refulgent streams, 

O'er hall, o'er bower, and fountain beams. 

O'er beds of roses, bright with dew. 

Unfolding modestly to view. 

Each trembling leaf, each blushing breast, 

In Cashmere's wildest sweetness dressed ; 

Through vistas long, through myrtle bowers 

Where Amir Khan once passed his hours 

In gazing on Amreta's face, 

So full of beauty, full of grace. 

Through veils of silver bright and clear, 

It poured its softened radiance far ; 

Or beamed in pure and milky brightness, 

O'er urns of alabaster whiteness ; 

Through Persian screens of glittering gold, 

O'er many an altar's sacred fold. 

Where to Eternity will blaze 

The naphtha's never-fading rays, 

The Gheber's fire which dieth never, 

But burns, and beams, and glows forever ! 



AMIR KHAN. II 

'Twas silent : not a voice was heard — 
No sigh, no murmur, not one word 
Was echoed through that briUiant hall ; 
The spell of silence hung o'er all ; 
For there had paused the wing of death, 
The midnight spirit's withering breath. 

At that still hour no sound arose 
To break the charm of deep repose ; 
The lake was glittering, and the breeze 
Sighed softly through the tzinnar trees. 
And kissed the Wuller's wave of blue, 
Or sipped the gull's light trembling dew ; 
But not a murmur, not a sigh 
Was wafted by the night-breeze by, 
Through that wide hall and princely bower. 
At midnight's calm and solemn hour ! 

O ! where was Love his night-watch keeping ! 
Or was the truant sweetly sleeping ? 
Where was he at that hour of rest. 
By him created, claimed, and blessed ? 
Where were the tears of Love, and Sorrow, 
The sigh which Sympathy can borrow ? 
Where were regret, and chill despair ? 
Where was Amreta ? — where, O where ? 

Hark ! 'tis the night-breeze softly playing. 
Through veils of glittering silver straying — 
No! 'tis a step — so quick, so light. 
That the wild flower which weeps at night, 



AMIR KHAN. 

Would raise again its drooping head, 
To greet the footstep which had fled. 

'Tis not the breeze which floats around, 
Lifting the Hght veil from the ground : 
No ! 'tis a form of heavenly mien 
Hath dared to draw the curtain's screen. 

Dimly, behind the fluttering veil. 
Which trembles in the breathing gale, 
A form appears of seraph mould 
As 'neath a light cloud's fleecy fold ; 
The veil is drawn with hasty hand. 
Loosed is the rich embroidered band ; - 
'Tis solemn solitude around. 
There's not a murmur, not a sound, — 
Again a snowy hand is seen, 
Again is raised the silken screen, 
And lo ! with light and noiseless tread, 
Amreta glided from its shade ! 

Her veil was fluttering in the air. 

Her brow, as Parian marble fair. 

Was glittering bright with many a gem 

Set in a brilliant diadem ; 

Her long dark hair was floating far. 

Braided with many a diamond star ; 

Her eye was raised, and O ! that eye 

Seemed only formed to gaze on high ! 

For O, more piercing bright its beam 

Than diamonds 'neath Golconda's stream 



AMIR khan: 13 

That angel-eye was only given 

To look upon its native heaven ! 

The glow upon her cheek was bright, 

But it came, and it fled like a meteor's light ; 

A brilliant tear was still lingering there. 

And O, it was shed for the Subahdar! 

O'er every tear the maiden shed, 
The heart of Amir Khan had bled ; 
Now, Amir Khan, she weeps for thee, 
O ! what must be thy ecstasy ? 
For Amir Khan Amreta weeps, 
Yet Amir Khan unheeding sleeps ! 
Like crystal dew-drops purely glowing, 
O'er his pale brow her tears are flowing ; 
She wipes them with her veil away, 
Less sacred far — less sweet than they ! 

Where was that eye whose ardent gaze 

Had warmed her bosom with its rays ? 

Where was that glance of love and woe ? 

Where was that proud heart's throbbing glow ? 

All, all was cold and silent there, 

And all was death, and dark despair ! 

She hid her face, now cold and pale. 

Within her sweetly scented veil ; 

Then seized her lute, and a strain so clear. 

So soft, so mournful arose on the air. 

That O ! it was sweet as the music of heaven 

O'er a lost one returning, a sinner forgiven ! 

Such notes as repentance in sorrow might sing. 

Notes wafted to heaven by Israfil's wing: — 



14 AMIR KHAN. 



SONG. 



Star of the morning ! this bosom was cold, 
When forced from my native shade, 

And I wrapped me around in my mantle's fold, 
A mournful Circassian maid ! 

I vowed that rapture should never move 
This changeless cheek, this rayless eye, 

I vowed to feel neither bliss nor love, — 
In silence to meet thee, and tJicn to die ! 

Each burning sigh thy bosom hath breathed, 
Has been melting that chain away ; 

The galling chain which around me I wreathed. 
On the morn of that fatal day ! 

'Tis done ! and this night I have broken the vow 
Which bound me in silence forever ! 

And thy spirit hath fled from a world of woe, 
To return again, never ! O never ! 

My soul is sad ! and my heart is weary ! 

For thy bosom is cold to me ; 
Without thy smile the world is dreary. 

And I will fly with thee! 

Together we'll float down eternity's stream, 
Twin stars on the breast of the billow, 



AMIR KHAN. 15 

The splendors of Paradise round us shall beam, 
And thy bosom shall be my pillow ! 

Then open thine arms, bright star of the morning ! 

My grave in thy bosom shall be, 
The glories of Paradise round us are dawning, 

My heaven is only with thee ! 



Hushed were the words, and hushed the song, 

Which sadly, sweetly flowed along, 

But Amir Khan's warm heart beat high. 

Though closed and rayless was his eye ; 

And every note which struck his ear. 

Whispered a hovering angel near ; 

And each- warm tear that wet his cheek, 

Her long-concealed regard bespeak ; 

His bosom bounded to be free, 

And fluttered, — wild with ecstasy! 

O ! would the magic charm had passed ! 

Would that the morn would break at last ! 

But no, — it will not, may not be ! 

He is not, nor can yet be free ! 

But hark ! Amreta's murmurs rise. 
Sweet as the bird of Paradise ; 
She bowed her head, and deeply sighed, 
" Yes, Amir Khan, I am thy bride ! 
And here the crimson hand of death 



l6 AMIR KHAN 

Shall wed us with a rosy wreath ! 
My blood shall join us as it flows, 
And bind us in a deep repose ! " 

Beneath her veil a light is beaming, 
A dagger in her hand is gleaming, 
And livid was the light it threw, 
A pale, cold, death-like stream of blue, 
Around her form of angel brightness, 
And o'er her brow of marble whiteness ! 

Awake ! O Amir Khan, awake ! 
Canst thou not rouse thee for //^r sake ? 
Beside thee can Amreta stand. 
The fatal dagger in her hand. 
And canst thou still regardless lie, 
And let thy loved Amreta die ? 
Awake ! O Amir Khan, awake ! 
And rouse thee for Amreta's sake ! 

— Like lightning from a midnight cloud, 
The Subahdar, from 'neath his shroud, 
Burst the cold, magic, death-like band. 
And snatched the dagger from her hand ! 
The maiden sunk upon his breast. 
And deep and lengthened was her rest ! 
There was no sigh, no murmur there, 
And scarcely breathed the Subahdar, 
While almost fearing to be blest, 
He clasped Amreta to his breast ! 
Deep buried in his mantle's fold, 



&mMmt 



\-^ 




AMIR KUAN. 17 

He felt not that her cheek was cold ; 

His own heart throbbed with pleasure's thrill, 

But whispered not that hers was still ! 

— Yes ! the wild flow of blissful joy. 
Which, bursting, threatened to destroy. 
Gave to her soul a rest from feeling ; 
A transient torpor gently stealing 

O'er beating pulse, and throbbing breast, 
Had calmed her every nerve to rest ; 

— But see ! the tide of life returns. 
Once more her cheek with rapture burns, 
Once more her dark eye's heavenly beam 
Pours forth its full and piercing gleam. 
Once more her heart is bounding high, 
Too full to weep — too blest to sigh ! 

1824. 




CHICOMICO. 

This Poem is founded on the following actual occurrences : During the 
Seminole war, Duncan M. Rimmon (the Rathmoud of the poem), a Georgia 
militiaman, was captured by the Indians. Hillis-adjo, their chief, con- 
demned him to death. He was bound ; but while the instruments of tor- 
ture were preparing, the tender-hearted daughter of Hillis-adjo (the Chi- 
comico of the tale) threw herself between the prisoner and his executioners, 
and interceded with her father for his release. She was successful. His 
life was spared. In the progress of the war, however, it was the fate of 
the generous Hillis-adjo (the prophet Francis) himself to be taken a pris- 
oner of war, and it was thought necessary to put him to death. These in- 
cidents Miss Davidson wrought up, with other characters (probably ficti- 
tious), to compose the whole of this poem. The first part of the poem 
is so incomplete, that it was thought best to introduce the reader immedi- 
to the second part. The war had broken out. Chicomico had solicited the 
presence of Ompahaw, a venerable chief, to aid her father Hillis-adjo 
against the whites, with Rathmond at their head. The battle is described, 
the Indians are victorious, and Rathmond is taken prisoner. Here the 
second part commences. 



PART II. 

What sight of horror, fear and woe, 

Now greets chief Hillis-ha-ad-joe .'' 

What thought of blood now lights his eye "i 

What victim foe is doomed to die .-' 

For his cheek is flushed, and his air is wild, 

And he cares not to look on his only child. 



CHICOMICO. 19 

His lip quivers with rage, his eye flashes fire, 
And his bosom beats high with a tempest of ire, 
Alas ! 'tis Rathmond stands a prisoner now, 
Awaiting death from Hillis-ha-ad-joe, 

From Hillis-ha-ad-joe, the stern, the dread, 
To whose vindicate, cruel, savage mind, 
Loss after loss fast following from behind, 

Had only added thirst insatiate for blood ; 
And now he swore by all his heart held dear. 
That limb from limb his victims he would tear. 

But ah ! young Rathmond's case what tongue can tell ! 
Upon his hapless fate what heart can dwell ? 
To die when manhood dawns in rosy light, 

To be cut off in all the bloom of life. 
To view the cup untasted snatched from sight, 

Is sure a thought with horror doubly rife. 
Alas, poor youth ! how sad, how faint thy heart ! 

When memory paints the forms endeared by love. 
From these so soon, so horribly to part ; 

O ! it would almost savage bosoms move ! 
But unextinguished hope still lit his breast. 
And aimless still, drew scenes of future rest ! 
Caught at each distant light which dimly gleamed, 
Though sinking, 'mid the abyss o'er which it beamed. 
Like the poor mariner, who, tossed around, 
Strains his dim eye to ocean's farthest bound, 
Paints, in each snowy wave, assistance near, 
And as it rolls away, gives up to fear : 
Dreads to look round, for death's on every side, 
The lowering clouds above the ocean wide : 



20 CHICOMICO. 

He wails alone — " and scarce forbears to weep," 
That his wrecked bark still lingers on the deep \ 

E'en to the child of penury and woe, 

Who knows no friend that o'er his grave will weep,* 
Whose tears in childhood's hour were taught to flow, 

Looks with dismay across death's horrid deep! 
Then, when suspended o'er that awful brink. 

Snatched from each joy, which opening life may give, 
Who would not from the prospect shuddering shrink. 

And murmur out one hope-fraught prayer to live! 
But, see ! the captive now is dragged along, 
While round him mingle yell and wild-war song ! 
The ring is formed around the high raised pile, 
Fagots o'er fagots reared with savage toil ; 
The impatient warriors watch with burning brands. 
To toss the death-signs from their ruthless hands ! 
Nearer, and nearer still the wretch is drawn, 
All hope of life, of rescue, now is gone ! 
A horrid death is placed before his eyes ; 
In fancy now he sees the flames arise, 
He hears the deafening yell which drowns the cry 
Of the poor victim's last, dire agony! 
His heart was sick, he strove in vain to pray 

To that great God, before whose awful bar 
His lightened soul was soon to wing its way 

From this sad world to other realms afar ! 

He raised his eyes to heaven's blue arch above, 
That pure retreat of mercy and of love ; 
When, lo ! two fellow-sutferers caught his eye. 

* Campbell- 



- CHICOMICO. 21 

The prophet Montonoc is doomed to die ! 
His haughty spirit now must be brought low ; 
Long had he been the chieftain's direst foe : 
The Indian's face was wrapped in mystic gloom, 
As on they led him to his horrid doom. 
A hectic flush upon his dark cheek burned, 
His eye nor to the right nor left hand turned : 
His lip nor quivered, nor turned pale with fear. 
Though the death-note already met his ear. 
Tall and majestic was his noble mien, 

Erect, he seemed to brave the foeman's ire, 
His step was bold, his features all serene. 

As he approached the steep funereal pyre ! 

Close at his side, a figure glided slow. 

Clad in the dark habiliments of woe, 

Whose form was shrouded in a mantle's fold. 

All, save one treacherous ringlet, — bright as gold. 

The death-song's louder note shrill peals on high, 

A signal that the victim soon must die ! 

While yell and war-note join the chorus still. 

Till the wild dirge rebounds from hill to hill ! 

Rathmond now turned to snatch a last sad gaze. 

Ere closed life's curtain o'er his youthful days ; 

When he beheld the dark, the piercing eye 

Of Montonoc, the prophet doomed to die, 

Bent upon Jiivi with such a steady gaze, 

That not more fixed was death's own horrid glaze! 

Then lifting his long swarthy finger high, 

To where the sun's bright beams just tinged the sky 



22 CHICOMICO. 

And o'er the parting day its glories spread, 
Which was to close when their sad souls had fled, — 
" White man," he cried, in low mysterious tone, 
Caught but by Rathmond's listening ear alone, 
" Ere the bright eye of yoji red orb shall sleep, 
This haughty chief his fallen tribe shall weep ! " 
He said no more ; for lo ! the death-yells cease. 
'Tis hushed ! no sound is echoed through the place. 
The opening ring disclosed a female there, 
In a rich mantle shrouded, save her hair, 
Which, long and dark, luxuriant round her hung. 
With many a clear white pearl and dew-drop strung. 

She threw back the mantle which shaded her face, 

She spoke not, but looked the pale spirit of woe ! 
The angel of mercy, the herald of grace. 

Knelt the sorrowful daughter of Hillis-ad-joe ! 
" My father ! my father ! " the maiden exclaims, 
" O doom not the white man to die 'midst the flames \ 
'Tis thy daughter who kneels, 'tis Chicomico sues, 
Can my father, the friend of my childhood, refuse .'' 
This heart is the white man's, with him will I die, 
With him to the Great Spirit's mansion I'll fly ; 
The flames which to heaven will waft his pure soul, 
Round the form of thy daughter encircling shall roll ; 
My life is his life — his fate shall be mint; 
For Jiis image around thy^ child's heart will entwine ! 

Man's breast may be cruel, and savage, and stern. 
From the sufferings of others it heedless may turn ; 
To the pleadings of want, to the wan face of woe, 



CHIC O MIC O. 23 

To the sorrow-wrung drops which around it may flow, 
But 'tv/ill melt Hke the snow on the Apennine's breast, 
As the sunbeam falls light on its fancy-crowned crest, 
When the voice of a child to its cold ear is given, 
Filled with sorrow's sad notes like the music of heaven. 

" Loose the white man," the king in agony cried, 

" My child, what you plead for, can ne'er be denied ! 

The prisoner is yours ! to enslave or to free ! 

I yield him, Chicomico, wholly to tJicc ; 

But remember ! " he cried, while pride conquered his 

woe, 
"Remember, thy father is Hillis-ad-joe!" 
He frowned, and his brow, like the curtains of night. 
Looked darker, when tinged by a moonbeam of light ; 
Chicomico saw — she saw, and with dread. 
The storm, which returning, might burst o'er her head ; 
And quickly to Rathmond she turned with a sigh, 
While a love-brightened tear veiled her heavenly eye. 

" Go, white man, go ! without a fear ; 
Remember you to one are dear ; 
Go ! and may peace your steps attend ; 
Chicomico will be your friend. 
To-morrow eve with us may close 
Joyful, and free from cares or woes ; 
To-morrow eve may also end. 
And find me here without a friend ! 
Remember then the Indian maid. 
Whose voice the burning brand hath stayed ! 
But should I be, as now I am, 



2 4 CHICOMICO. 

And thou in prison and in woe, 
Think that this heart is still the same, 

And turn thee to Chicomico! 
Then, go ! yes, go ! while yet you may. 
Dread death awaits you if you stay ! 
May the Great Spirit guard and guide 
Your footsteps through the forest wide ! " 
She said, and wrapped her mantle near 

Her fragile form, with hasty hand. 
Just bowed her head, and shed one tear, 

Then sped him to his native land. 

The wind is swift, and mountain hart, 

From huntsman's bow the feathered dart ; 

But swifter far the prisoner's flight. 

When freed from dungeon-chains and night ! 

So Rathmond felt, but wished to show 

How much he owed Chicomico ; 

But she had fled ; she did not hear ! 

She did not mark the grateful tear 

Which quivered in the hero's eye ; 

Nor did she catch the half-breathed sigh ; 

And Heaven alone could hear the prayer. 

Which Rathmond's full heart proffered there. 



PART III. 

While swift on his way young Rathmond sped, 
Death's horrors awaited those he fled. 
Already were the prisoners bound, — 



CHICOMICO. 

One word, and every torch would fly ; 
No step was heard, nor feeblest sound. 

Save the death raven's wing on high ! 
The sign was given, each blazing brand 
Like lightning shot from every hand ; 
The crackling, sparkling fagots blazed, — 
Then Montonoc his dark eye raised ; 
He whistled shrill — an answering call 
Told that each foeman then should fall ! 
Sudden a band of warriors flew 
From earth, as if from earth they grew. 
The brake, the fern, and hazel-down, 
Blazed brightly in the sinking sun ; 
Confusion, blood, and carnage then 
Spread their broad pinions o'er the glen ; 
The blazing brands were quenched in blood. 
And Montonoc unshackled stood ! 
He paused one moment — dark he frowned, 
By dire revenge and slaughter crowned ; 
Then bent his bow, let loose the dart. 
And pierced the foeman Chieftain's heart. 
Yes, Montonoc, thy arrow sped. 
For Hillis-ha-ad-joe is dead ! 

And now within their hidden tent, 
The conquered make their sad lament ; 
Before them lay their slaughtered king, 
While slowly round they form the ring ; 
Dread e'en in death, the Chieftain's form 
Seemed made to stride the whirlwind storm ; 
Upon his brow a dreadful frown 
Still lingered as the warrior's crown ; 



26 CHI COM ICO. 

And yet it seemed as mortal ire 
Still sparkled in that eye of fire, 
And, blazing, soon should light the face 
O'er which death's shadow held its place, 
And like the lightning 'neath a cloud, 
Shoot flaming from its sable shroud. 
But, hark! low notes of sorrow break 
The solemn calm, and o'er the lake. 
Float on the bosom of the gale ; 
Hark ! 'tis the Chieftain's funeral wail ! 

Fallen, fallen, fallen low 

Lies great Hillis-ha-ad-joe ! 

To the land of the dead, 

By the white man sped ! 
In his hunting garb they shall welcome him there^ 
To the land of the bow and the antlered deer ! 

Fallen is Hillis-ha-ad-joe ! 

Chant his death-dirge sad and slow ; 

In the battle he fell, in the fight he died. 

And many a brave warrior sunk by his side. 
In his hunting garb they shall welcome him there, 
To the land of the bow and the antlered deer. 

The sun is sinking in the deep, 

Our " mighty fallen one " we weep ; 

Fallen is Hillis-ha-ad-joe ! 

The axe has laid our broad oak low ! 
In his hunting garb they shall welcome him there. 
To the land of the bow and the antlered deer. 



CHICOMICO. 2 7 

The last sad note had sunk on the breeze, 
Which mournfully sighed among the dark trees, 
When a form thickly shrouded, swift glided along, 
But joined not her voice to the funeral song. 
When the notes ceased, she knelt, and in accents of 

woe. 
Besought the Great Spirit for Hillis-ad-joe. 
Her words were but few, and her manner was wild, 
For she was the slaughtered Chief's poor orphan child! 
She raised her dark eye to the sun sinking red. 
She looked, and that glance told that reason had fled ! 

Why does thy eye roll wild, Chicomico ? 
Why dost thou shake like aspen's quivering bough ? 
Why o'er that fine brow streams thy raven hair ? 
Read ! for the " wreck of reason's written there ! " 
'Tis true ! the storm was high, the surges wild. 
And reason fled the Chieftain's orphan child ! 
Thou poor heart-broken wretch on life's wild sea, 
Say ! who is left to love, to comfort thee ? 
All, all are gone, and thou art left alone, 
Like the last rose, by autumn rudely blown. 

But she has fled, the wild and winged wind 
Is by her left, long loitering far behind ! 
But whither has she fled .^ to wild-wood glen, 
Far from the cares, the joys, the haunts of men ! 
Her bed the rock, her drink the rippling stream, 
And murdered friends her ever constant dream ! 
Her wild death-song is wafted on the gale. 
Which echoes round the Chieftain's funeral wail ! 



28 CHICOMICO. 

Her little skiff she paddles o'er the lake, 
And bids " the Daughter of the Voice," awake ! 
From hill to hill the shrieking echoes run, 
To greet the rising and the setting sun. 



PART IV. 

The lake is calm, the sun is low, 

The whippoorwill is chanting slow, 

And scarce a leaf through the forest is seen 

To wave in the breeze its rich mantle of green. 

Fit emblem of a guiltless mind. 

The glassy waters calmly lie ; 
Unruffled by a breath of wind. 

Which o'er its shining breast may sigh ! 
The shadow of the forest there 

Upon its bosom soft may rest ; 
The eagle-heights, which tower in air, 

May cast their dark shades o'er its breast. 

But hark ! approaching paddles break 
The stillness of that azure lake ! 
Swift o'er its surface glides the bark,* 
Like lightning's flash, like meteor spark 
It seemed, as on the light skiff flew, 
As it scarce kissed the wave's deep blue, 
Which, dimpling round the vessel's side, 
Sparkled and whirled in eddies wide ! 

Who guides it through the yielding lake .'' 



CHICOMICO. 29 

Who dares its magic calm to break ? 
'Tis Montonoc ! his piercing eye 

Is raised to where the western hill 
Rears its broad forehead to the sky, 

Battling the whirlwind's fury still. 

'Twas Montonoc, and with him there 
Was that strange form, with golden hair ! 
Wrapped in the self-same garb, as when, 
Surrounded by those savage men. 
The stranger had, with Montonoc, 
Been led before the blazing stake ! 
Swift, swift the light skift^ forward flew. 
Till it had crossed the waters blue ; 
Both leaped like lightning to the land, 
And left the skiff upon the strand ; 
Far 'mid the forest then they fled. 
And mingled with its dark brown shade. 

The oak's broad arms in the breeze were creaking, 

The bird of the gloomy brow was shrieking, 

When a note on the night-wind was wafted along, 

A note of the dead Chieftain's funeral song. 

A form was seen wandering in frantic woe, 

'Twas the maniac daughter of Hillis-ad-joe ! 

Her dark hair was borne on the night-wind afar, 

And she sung the wild dirge of the Blood-hound of 

War! 
She ceased when she came near the breeze-ruffled 

lake ; 
She ceased — was't the wind sighing o'er the long 

brake t 



30 CHICOMICO. 

Was't the soft rippling wave ? was't the murmur of 

trees, 
Which, bending, were brushed by the wing of the 

breeze ? 
Ah, no ! for she shrieked, as her piercing eye caught 
A form which her frenzied brain never forgot ! 
'Twas Rathmond ! yes, Rathmond before her now 

stood. 
And he glanced his full eye on the child of the wood. 

" Chicomico ! " he cried, his voice sad and low, 

"Chicomico! we are the children of woe ! 

O, come, then ! O, come ! and thy Rathmond's strong 

arm 
Shall shelter thee ever from danger and harm ; 
'Tis true, I have loved with the passion of youth ! 
I have loved ; and let Heaven attest with what truth ! 
But, Cordelia, thy ashes are mixed with the dead" — 
(Here his eye flashed more fierce, and his pale cheek 

turned red) 
" 'Twas tJiy father, Chicomico — yes, 'twas tJiy sire. 
Who kindled the loved saint's funereal pyre! 
But, 'tis passed " — (and he crossed his cold, quivering 

hand 
O'er a brow that was burning like Zahara's sand,) 
" 'Tis passed ! and Chicomico, tJiou didst preserve 
The life of a wretch, who now never can love ! 
That life is thy own, with a heart, that though chilled 
To passion's soft throb, is with gratitude filled ! " 

She turned her dark eye, from which reason's bright 
fire 



CHICOMICO. 3 1 

Had fled, with the ghosts of her friends — of her sire ; 
" Young" Eagle ! " she cried, " when my father was 

slain. 
What white man, who ravaged along that dread plain. 
Withheld the dire blow, and plead for the life 
Of Hillis-ad-joe ? and say, who in that strife 
Stayed the arm that bereft me, and left me alone ? 
Yes, Young Eagle ! my father, my brothers are gone ! 
Wouldst thou ask me to linger behind them, while they 
To yon heaven in the west are wending their way ? 
And, hark ! the Great Spirit, whose voice sounds on 

high, 
Bids me come ! and see, white man, how gladly I 

fly!" 
More swift than the deer, when the hounds are in 

view. 
To the bark that was stranded, Chicomico flew ! 
She dashed the light oar in the waves' foaming spray 
And thus wildly she sung, as she darted away : — 

" I go to the land in the west. 

The Great Spirit calls me away ! 
To the land of the just and the blest. 
The Great Spirit points me the way ! 

" Like snow on the mountain's crest, 
Like foam on the fountain's breast, 

Hillis-ad-joe and his kinsmen have passed ! 
Like the sun's setting ray in the west, 
When it sinks on the wave to rest, 

The dead chieftain's daughter is coming at last ! 



32 CHICOMICO. 

"Too long has she Ungered behind, 
Awaiting the Great Spirit's voice ! 
But hark ! it calls loud in the wind, 
And Chicomico now will rejoice ! 

" I go to the land in the west : 

The Great Spirit calls me away ! 
To the land of the just and the blest, 
The Great Spirit points me the way ! " 

The wild notes sunk upon the gale, 

And echo caught them not again ! 
For the breeze which bore the maiden's wail, 

Wafted afar the last sad strain ! 

'Twas said, that shrieking 'mid the storm. 

The maiden oft was seen to glide, 
And oft the hunters marked her form. 

As swift she darted through the tide. 

And once along the calm lake shore. 
Her light canoe was she seen to guide. 

But the maid and her bark are seen no more 
To float along the rippling tide. 

For the billows foamed, and the winds did roar, 
And her lamp, as it glimmered amid the storm, 

A moment blazed bright, and was seen no more, 
For it sunk 'mid the waves with her maniac form ! 



CHICOMICO. 33 



THE FAREWELL. 



Adieu, Chicomico, adieu ; 

Soft may'st thou sleep amid the wave, 
And 'neath thy canopy of bkie 

May sea-maids deck thy coral grave. 

'Tvvas but a feeble voice which sung 
Thy hapless tale of youthful woe ; 

But ah ! that weak, that infant tongue 
Will ne'er another story know. 

And though the rough and foaming surge, 
And the wild whirlwind whistling o'er. 

Should rudely chant thy funeral dirge, 

And send the notes from shore to shore ; 

Still shall one voice be heard, above 
The dreadful " music of the spheres ! " 

The voice of one whose song is love, 
Embalmed by sorrow's saddest tears. 



PART V. 

The fourth day found the dark tribe brooding o'er 
Their chieftain's body, chieftain now no more ! 
As fire half-quenched, some faint spark lives. 
Glimmers, half dies, and then revives, 
3 



34 ' CHICOMICO. 

Revives to kindle far and wide, 

And spread with devastating stride ; 

So glimmered, so revived, so spread 

The mourners' rage around the dead ! 

Their quivers o'er their shoulders flung, 

Up rose the aged and the young ; 

And swore, as tenants of the wood. 

By all their hearts held dear or good. 

That, ere another sun should rise. 

Their slaughtered foes should glut their eyes. 

They swore revenge and bloodshed too. 

As their slain chieftain's rightful due ; 

They swore that blood should freely flow 

For their poor, lost Chicomico ! 

'Twas evening : all was fair and still ; 

The orb of night now sparkling on the rill. 

Now glittering o'er the fern, and water-brake, 

Cast its broad eye-beam o'er the lake ! 

Far through the forest, where no foot-path lay. 

Old Montonoc pursued his onward way ; 

The fair-haired stranger hung upon his arm. 

Shook at each noise, and trembled with alarm ; 

" Well do I know the woodland way, 

For I have tracked it many a day, 

When mountain bear or wilder deer 

Have called me to this for-^st drear. 

Fear'st thou with Montonoc to stray. 

Why wanderest thou so far away. 

From friends, from safety, and from home, 

To war, and weariness, and gloom ? 



CHICOMICO. 

Thou must not hope, as yet, to bear 
Free from disguise that form so dear ; 
It must not, and it will not be. 
Till, buried in the dark Monee, 
The last of yonder tribe of blood 
Lies weltering in the sable flood ! 
But rest thee on this fresh green seat, 
And I will trace his wandering feet ; 
Warn him to watch the lurking foe, 
Whose bloody breasts for vengeance glow ; 
Then rest thee here ; within yon dell 
I saw his form, and knew him well?" 

Thus spoke the prophet of the wood, 
As near the stranger maid he stood. 

" Then go," she cried, half faltering, " go ! 

Bid him beware the bloody foe ! 

But give me, ere we part," she cried, 

" Yon blood-stained death-blade from your side ; 

Perhaps this arm, though weak, may find 

Strength in the hour of deep distress ; 
Go ! my preserver and my friend. 

May heaven thy steps and eflbrts bless ! " 

Cautious and swift the Indian went ; 
His head was raised, his bow was bent, 
And as he on, like wild deer, sped. 
So light, so silent, was his tread. 
That scarce a leaf was heard to move. 
Of flower below, or branch above ! 



36 CHICOMICO. 

Where Rathmond, with a heart of woe, 
Had gazed on lost Chicomico, 
There, on that spot, the prophet's eye 
Marked the young warrior's farewell sigh. 

" Why lingerest thou here, Young Eagle,"' he cried, 
" The foe 'neath the fern and the dark hazel hide ! 
Blood, blood ! be our war-cry, for vengeance is theirs ! 
Their arrows are winged by despair and by fears ! 
When the last of the tribe of Hillis-ad-joc 
Hath plunged him beneath the deep waters below. 
Thy heart shall possess all it wishes for here, 
Unchilled by a sigh, unbedewed by a tear ! 
But till then, cold and vacant thy bosom shall be. 
And the idol to which thou hast bended thy knee, 
Shall mark thee, and love thee, in peril and woe. 
Yet till then that dear being thou never shalt know ! " 

" What mean'st thou, prophet of the eagle-eye, 

By thy mysterious prophecy ? 

Well knowest thou that yon bloody chief . 

Doomed her to death, and me to grief! 

That round that form the wild flames rolled 

And wafted far her angel soul ! 

Why didst thou not arrest the brand ? 

For, prophet, fate was in thy hand." 

" 'Tis well," the Indian calmly said, 
" 'Tis well," and bowed to earth his head ; 
" But," he exclaimed, with eye less grave, 
" I left a skiff on yonder wave — 



CHICOMICO. 37 

Say, dark-eyed Eagle, dost thou know 
Aught of the dire, blood-thirsty foe ? " 

" No, Montonoc ! no foe was she. 
Who plunged adown the swift Monee. 
Chicomico is cold and damp ! 
The wave her couch — the moon her lamp ; 
But mark ! adown the foaming stream 
The barks beneath the moon's pale beam ! 
What bode they ? or of weal, or woe ? 
Do they betoken friend or foe ? 
Perchance to rouse the wild wood deer 
The Indian hunters landed there." 

Back they retraced their steps, till from the hill 
A female shriek rang loud, distinct, and shrill ! 
Both start, both stop, and Montonoc's dark eye 
Flashed like a meteor of the northern sky. 
But hark! what cry of savage joy is there, 
Borne through the forest on the midnight air.^* 

It is the foe ! the band of blood-hounds came. 
Who erst had lit the Chieftain's funeral flame! 
Revenge and death around their arrows gleam, 
And murder shudders 'neath the moon's pale beam ! 
The fiercest warrior of their tribe, their chief, 
Sage in the council, bloody in the strife. 
High towered dark Wompaw's snowy plume in air, 
Waved on the breeze, and shone a beacon there! 
Old Ompahaw, with brow of fire, 
And bosom burning high with ire, 



38 CHICOMICO. 

And sparkling eye, and burning brand, 
Which gleamed athwart both lake and strand. 
Still echoed back the lengthened yell 
Which startled wildwood, rock and dell ! 
And more were there, so dread, so wild, 
Nature might shudder at her child. 
And curse the hand that e'er had made 
So dark a stain, so deep a shade ! 

On, on they flew, with lengthened stride ; 

But, ah! the victims, where are they? — 
Naught but the lake lies open wide. 

And the broad bosom of the bay ! 
But, ah ! 'tis well ; that shrill shriek tolled 

The death-knell of their chief once more ! 
Yes, Rathmond, yes, the deed was bold. 

That stretched yon white plume on the shore ! 

Safe crouched 'neath fern-bush, dark and low, 

Rathmond had truly bent his bow, 

And Montonoc, with steady eye, 

From 'mid the oak's arms, broad and high. 

Took aim as sure ; his arrows sped. 

And many a bloody foe is dead ! 

Wide tumult spreads ! afar they fly. 

Each rustling brake, which meets the eye. 

Seems shrouding still some warrior there. 

With bloody brand and eye of fire. 

Slow dropping from his safe retreat, 

The prophet glides to Rathmond's seat ; 

Then raised loud yells of various tone. 

Such as are given at victory won. 



CHICOMICO. c9 

And Rathmond joined, till long and high, 

Rang the loud chorus to the sky ! 

Hark ! o'er the rocks, the shrieks are answered wild ; 

Can it be Echo, Nature's darling child ? 

No ; 'tis a whoop of horror and despair, 

Which knows no sympathy, which sheds no tear ! 

Lo ! on yon cliff, which frowns above the wave, 
Mark the stern warriors hovering o'er their grave ! 
'Tis done : the sullen bosom of the bay 
Opens and closes o'er its sinking prey ! 

One hollow splashing, as the waters part. 

Sad welcome of the victim to his bed, 
One mournful, shuddering echo, and the heart 

Turns, chilled, at length, from scenes of death and 
dread ! 

But, ah ! like some sad spectre lingering near, 
A form still hovers o'er the scene of woe ; 

Does it await its hour of vengeance here, 
Watching the cold forms weltering below ? 

The morn was dawning slowly in the east, 

A few faint gleams of light were bursting through 

When the dread warriors sought the lake's calm breast, 
And sullen sunk amid its waters blue ! 

That rude, wild phantom hovering there, 
Poised on the precipice midway in air. 
Like some stern spirit of the dead, 
Rising indignant from its bed. 
Was Ompahaw ! alone, he stood, 



40 CHICOMICO. 

Gazing on heaven, on hill, and wood ! 
His eye was wilder than the eagle's glare ; 
Its glance was triumph, mingled with despair ! 
Far floated on the breeze his plumes of red, 
Waving" in warlike pride around his head ; 
His bow was aimless, bent within his hand ; 
His scalping-knife was gleaming in its band ; 
And his gay dress, bedecked for battle's storm, 
Was wildly fluttering round his warrior form ! 

"Farewell!" he cried, "this aged hand 

Draws the last bow-string of our band ! " 

He spoke, and, sudden as the lightning's glance, 

The dart, one moment, o'er the waters danced ; 

Like comet's blaze, like shooting star. 

It whirled across the waters far ! 

The dark lake sparkled, as the arrow fell. 

Foaming, death's herald, a last, bright farewell ! 

Then from his belt his tomahawk he tore, 

" Man shall ne'er stain thy blade again with gore ! " 

Then raised on high his arm, and wildly sung 

The death-song of his tribe, till Nature rung ! 

THE DEATH-SONG. 

•' The last of the tribe of Hillis-ad-joe 

Falls not by the hand of the bloody foe ; 

But they fled to the heaven of peace in the west ; 

The Great Spirit called, and they flew to be blessed 

'• From the dark rock's frowning brow 
They flew to the deep below ; 



CHICOMICO. 41 

They feared not, for the heaven of peace in the west 
Was smihng them welcome, sweet welcome to rest ! 

"The last of. the tribe of Hillis-ad joe 

Now plunges him 'mid the deep waters below ! 

I come, Great Spirit, take me to thy rest ! 

Lo! my freed soul is winged towards the west!" 

'Tis past ! the rude, wild sons of Nature sleep. 
Calm, undisturbed, amid the waters deep ! 
'Tis past ! the deed is done, the tribe has gone ! 
Not one is left to mourn it, no, not one ! 

The last of all that tribe of blood 

Lies weltering in the sable flood ! 

O ! where is yonder fair-haired maid ? 

Say, whither hath the lone one strayed ? 

'Mid the wild tumult of the strife, 

Where fled she from the scalping-knife ? 

Angels around her spread their arm. 

And shrouded her from fear and harm ! 

But oh, what shriek rang shrill and clear, 

And echoed still in Rathmond's ear ? 

Why should he note that voice, that scream ? 

W^as it his fancy, or a dream ? 

Or was it — hope illumed his eye, 

And pointed to the prophecy ! 

" But no ! — 'twere madness to return 
To those bright scenes of joy," he cried, 

" Her bones are whitening in the sun, 
Her ashes scattered far and wide ! " 



42 CHICOMICO. 

But where is Montonoc ? alone, 

Rathmond is musing on the strand ; 
Say, whither has the prophet gone ? 

Why does young Rathmond heedless stand ? 

O ! he is picturing to his vacant breast 
Those scenes of joy, those moments doubly blessed. 
Which youthful hope had promised should be his, 
When all was light, and love, and cloudless bliss ! 
O ! he was sighing o'er the dreary waste, 

Left in that bosom, which had loved so well ! 
O ! he was wishing for some place of rest, 

Some gloomy cavern, or some lonely cell ' 

But, ah ! the voice of Montonoc is heard, 

Loud as the notes of yonder gloomy bird ; 

" Eagle ! " he cried, " the fatal charm hath passed ! 

The blood-red tribe have darkly sunk at last ! 

And, warrior, now I yield unto thy power 

The latest trophy of my life's last hour ! 

Deal with him as thou wilt, for he is thine ! 

But mark ! 'twas I who gave, for he was mine ! 

Adieu ! I go ! " He closed his fiery eye. 

And his stern spirit flew to heaven on high ! 

The prisoner sighed, and mutely gazed awhile 

Upon the fallen prophet's brow of toil, 

Then towards the warrior turned, dropped the dark 

hood, 
And lo ! Cordelia before Rathmond stood ! 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



AN ACROSTIC. 
THE MOON. 

Lo ! yonder rides the empress of the night ! 
Unveiled she casts around her silver light ; 
Cease not, fair orb, thy slow majestic march. 
Resume again thy seat in yon blue arch. 
E'en iiozv, as weary of the tedious way, 
Thy head on Ocean's bosom thou dost lay ; 
In his blue waves thou hid'st thy shining face, 
And gloomy darkness takes its vacant place. 

THE SUN. 

[in continuation.] 

Darting his rays the sun now glorious rides, 
And from his path fell darkness quick divides ; 
Vapor dissolves and shrinks at his approach. 
It dares not on his blazing path encroach ; 
Down droops the flow'ret, and his burning ray 
Scorches the workmen o'er the new-mown hay. 
O, lamp of Heaven, pursue thy glorious course. 
Nor till gray twilight, aught abate thy force. 
1819. 



CHARITY. 

A VERSIFICATIUN OF PART OK THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER OF FIRST 
CORINTHIANS. 

Though I were gifted with an angel's tongue, 
And voice like that with which the prophets sung, 
Yet if mild charity were not within, 
'Twere all an impious mockery and sin. 

Though I the gift of prophecy possessed, 
And faith like that which Abraham professed. 
They all were like a tinkling cymbal's sound, 
If meek-eyed charity did not abound. 

Though I to feed the poor my goods bestow, 
And to the flames my body I should throw, 
Yet the vain act would never cover sin 
If heaven-born charity were not within. 
1820. 




ON THE DEATH OF QUEEN CAROLINE. 

Star of England ! Brunswick's pride ! 

Thou hast suffered, drooped, and died ! 

Adversity, with piercing eye. 

Bade all her arrows round thee fly ; 

She marked thee from thy cradle-bed. 

And plaited thorns around thy head ! — 

As the moon, whom sable clouds 

Now brightly shows — now darkly shrouds — 

So envy, with a serpent's eye. 

And slander's tongue of blackest dye. 

On thy pure name asj^ersions cast, 

And triumphed o'er thy fame at last ! 

But each dark tale of guilt and shame 

Shall darker fly to whence it came ! 

A stranger in a foreign land. 

Oppressed beneath a tyrant's hand, 

She drank the bitter cup of woe, 

And read Fate's blackening volume through I 

The last, the bitterest drop was drank, 

The volume closed — and all was blank ! 



A HERO'S DUST. 

And does a hero's dust lie here? 
Columbia ! gaze and drop a tear ! 
His country's and the orphan's friend, 
See thousands o'er his ashes bend ! 

Among the heroes of the age, 
He was the warrior and the sage ! 
He left a train of glory bright 
Which never will be hid in night. 

The toils of war and danger past, 

He reaps a rich reward at last ; 

His pure soul mounts on cherub's wings, 

And now with saints and angels sings. 

The brightest on the list of fame 

In golden letters shines his name ; 

Her trump shall sound it through the world, 

And the striped banner ne'er be furled ! 

And every sex and every age, 
From lisping boy to learned sage, 
The widow and her orphan son, 
Revere the name of Washington ! 



THE EVENING SPIRIT. 

When the pale moon is shining bright, 

And nought disturbs the gloom of night, 

'Tis then upon yon level green, 

From which St. Clair's dark heights are seen, 

The Evening Spirit glides along, 

And chants her melancholy song ; 

Or leans upon a snowy cloud, 

And its white skirts her figure shroud. 

By zephyrs light she's wafted far, 

And contemplates the northern star, 

Or gazes from her silvery throne. 

On that pale queen, the silent moon. 

Who is the Evening Spirit fair, 
That hovers o'er thy walls, St. Clair ? 
Who is it, that with footstep light. 
Breathes the calm silence of the night ? 
Ask the light zephyr who conveys 
Her fairy figure o'er the waves ; 
Ask yon bright fleecy cloud of night, 
Ask yon pale planet's silver light. 
Why does the Evening Spirit fair 
Sail o'er the walls of dark St. Clair ? 



TO SCIENCE. 

Let others in false Pleasure's court be found, 
But may I ne'er be whirled the giddy round ; 
Let me ascend with Genius' rapid flight, 
Till the fair hill of Science meets my sight. 

Blest with a pilot who my feet will guide. 
Direct my way, whene'er I step aside ; 
May one bright ray of Science on me shine, 
And be the gift of learning ever mine. 



PLEASURE. 

Away ! unstable, fleeting Pleasure, 
Thou troublesome and gilded treasure ; 
When the false jewel changes hue. 
There's naught, O man, that's left for you ! 
What many grasp at with such joy, 
Is but her shade, a foolish toy ; 
She is not found at every court. 
At every ball, and every sport. 
But in that heart she loves to rest. 
That's with a guiltless conscience blest. 



THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 

The shepherd feeds his fleecy flock with care, 
And mourns to find one httle lamb has strayed ; 

He, unfatigued, roams through the midnight air, 
O'er hills, o'er rocks, and through the mossy glade. 

But when that lamb is found, what joy is seen 
Depicted on the careful shepherd's face, 

When, sporting o'er the smooth and level green, 
He sees his favorite charge is in its place. 

Thus the great Shepherd of his flock doth mourn. 
When from his fold a wayward lamb has strayed. 

And thus with mercy He receives him home. 
When the poor soul his Lord has disobeyed. 

There is great joy among the saints in heaven, 
When one repentant soul has found its God, 

For Christ, his Shepherd, hath his ransom given. 
And sealed it with his own redeeming blood ! 

4 




LINES, 

WRITTEN UNDER THE PROMISE OF REWARD. 

Whene'er the Muse pleases to grace my dull page, 
At the sight of reward, she flies off in a rage ; 
Prayers, threats, and entreaties I frequently try. 
But she leaves me to scribble, to fret, and to sigh. 

She torments me each moment, and bids me go write, 
And when I obey her, she laughs at the sight ; 
The rhyme will not jingle, the verse has no sense, 
And against all her insults I have no defense. 

I advise all my friends, who wish me to write, 
To keep their rewards and their praises from sight ; 
So that jealous Miss Muse won't be wounded in pride, 
Nor Pegasus rear, till I've taken my ride. 




TO THE 

MEMORY OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

In yon lone valley where the cypress spreads 
Its gloomy, dark, impenetrable shades, 
The mourning Nine, o'er White's untimely grave 
Murmur their sighs, like Neptune's troubled wave. 

There sits Consumption, sickly, pale, and thin. 
Her joy evincing by a ghastly grin ; 
There his deserted garlands withering lie. 
Like him they droop, like him untimely die. 



STILLING THE WAVES. 

"And He arose and rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea, 
' Peace, be still ! ' " 

Be still, ye waves, for Christ doth deign to tread 

On the rough bosom of your watery bed ! 

Be not too harsh your gracious Lord to greet. 

But, in soft murmurs, kiss his holy feet ; 

'Tis He alone can calm your rage at will, 

This is his sacred mandate, " Peace, be still ! " 



A SONG. 

(IN IMITATION OF THE SCOTCH.) 

Wha is it that caemeth sae blithe and sae swift, 

His bonnet is far frae his flaxen hair lift, 

His dark een rolls gladsome, i' the breeze floats his 

plaid. 
And surely he bringeth nae news that is sad. 
Ah ! say, bonny stranger, whence caemest thou now ? 
The tiny drop trickles frae off thy dark brow. 

"I come," said the stranger, "to spier my lued hame, 
And see if my Marion still were the same ; 
I hae been to the battle, where thousands hae bled. 
And chieftains fu' proud are wi' mean peasants laid ; 
I hae fought for my country, for freedom, and fame. 
And now I'm returning wi' speed to my hame." 

" Gude Spirit of Light ! " ('twas a voice caught his ear) 

" And is it me ain Norman's accents I hear ? 

And has the fierce Southron then left me my child ! 

Or am I wi' sair, sair anxiety wild .? " 

He turned to behold — 'tis his mother he sees ! 

He flies to embrace her — he falls on his knees. 

" O ! where is my father ? " a tear trickled down, 
And silently moistened the warrior's cheek brown ; 



A SO JVC. \ 53 

' Ah ! sure my heart sinks, sae sair in my breast, 
Too sure he frae all the world's trouble doth rest ! " 
' But where is my Marion ? " his pale cheek turned 

red, 
And the glistening tear in his eye was soon dried. 

' She lives ! " and he knew 'twas his Marion's sweet 

tone, 
' She lives," exclaims Marion, " for Norman alone ! " 
He saw her : the rose had fled far from her cheek. 
But Norman still lives ! his Marion is found ; 
By the adamant chains of blithe Hymen they're 

bound. 




EXIT FROM EGYPTIAN BONDAGE. 

When Israel's sons, from cruel bondage freed, 
Fled to the land by righteous Heaven decreed ; 
Insulting Pharaoh quick pursued their train, 
E'en to the borders of the troubled main. 

Affrighted Israel stood alone dismayed, 
The foe behind, the sea before them laid ; 
Around, the hosts of bloody Pharaoh fold, 
And wave o'er wave the raging Red Sea rolled. 

But God, who saves his chosen ones from harm, 
Stretched to their aid his all-protecting arm. 
And lo! on either side the sea divides. 
And Israel's army in its bosom hides. 

Safe to the shore through watery walls they march, 
And once more hail kind Heaven's aerial arch ; 
Far, far behind, the cruel foe is seen. 
And the dark waters roll their march between. 

The God of vengeance stretched his arm again. 
And heaving, back recoiled the foaming main ; 
And impious Pharaoh 'neath the raging wave. 
With all his army, finds a watery grave. 



EXIT FROM EGYPTIAN BONDAGE. 55 

Rejoice, O Israel ! God is on your side, 
He is your champion, and your faithful guide ; 
By day, a cloud is to your footsteps given ; 
By night, a fiery column towers to heaven. 

Then Israel's children marched by day and night. 
Till Sinai's mountain rose upon their sight: 
There righteous Heaven the flying army stayed. 
And Israel's sons the high command obeyed. 

To Sinai's mount the trembling people came, 

'Twas wrapped in threatening clouds, in smoke, and 

flame ; 
A silent awe pervaded all the van ; 
Not e'en a murmur through the army ran. 

High Sinai shook ! dread thunders rent the air ! 
And horrid lightnings round its summit glare ! 
'Twas God's pavilion, and the black'ning clouds, 
Dark hovering o'er, his dazzling glory shrouds. 

To Heaven's dread court the intrepid leader came, 
To receive its mandate in the people's name ; 
Loud trumpets peal — the awful thunders roll, 
Transfixing terrors in each guilty soul. 

But lo ! He comes, arrayed in shining light, 
And round his forehead plays a halo bright : 
Heaven's high commands with trembling were re- 
ceived. 
Heaven's high commands were heard, and were be- 
lieved. 



THE LAST FLOWER OF THE GARDEN. 

The last flower of the garden was blooming alone ; 
The last rays of the sun on its blushing leaves shone; 
Still a glittering drop on its bosom reclined, 
And a few half-blown buds 'midst its leaves were en- 
twined. 

Say, lonely one, say, why lingerest thou here ? 
And why on thy bosom reclines the bright tear ? 
'Tis the tear of a zephyr — for summer 'twas shed, 
And all thy companions now withered and dead. 

Why lingerest thou here, when around thee are strown 
The flowers once so lovely, by Autumn blast blown ? 
Say, why, sweetest floweret, the last of thy race. 
Why lingerest thou here the lone garden to grace .-* 

As I spoke, a rough blast, sent by Winter's own hand, 
Whistled by me, and bent its sweet head to the sand ; 
I hastened to raise it — the dew-drop had fled. 
And the once lovely flower was withered and dead. 



ODE TO FANCY. 

Fancy, sweet and truant sprite, 
Steals on wings, as feathers light, 
Draws a veil o'er Reason's eye. 
And bids the guardian senses fly. 

Soft she whispers to the mind, 
Come, and trouble leave behind : 
She banishes the fiend Despair, 
And shuts the eyes of waking Care. 

Then, o'er precipices dark, 
Where never reached the wing of lark. 
Fearing no harm, she dauntless flies, 
Where rocks on rocks dread frowning rise. 

When Autumn shakes his hoary head, 
And scatters leaves at every tread ; 
Fancy stands with listening ear. 
Nor starts, when shrieks affrighted Fear. 

There's music in the rattling leaf. 
But 'tis not for the ear of Grief; 
There's music in the wind's hoarse moan. 
But 'tis for Fancy's ear alone. 



THE BLUSH. 

Why that blush on Ella's cheek, 
What doth the flitting wanderer seek ? 
Doth passion's blackening tempest scowl, 
To agitate my Ella's soul ? 

Return, sweet wanderer, fear no harm ; 
The heart which Ella's breast doth warm. 
Is virtue's calm, serene retreat : 
And ne'er with passion's storm did beat. 

Return, and calmly rest, till love 
Shall thy sweet efficacy prove ; 
Then come, and thy loved place resume, 
And fill that cheek with youthful bloom. 

A blush of nature charms the heart 
More than the brilliant tints of art; 
They please awhile, and please no more, — 
We hate the things we loved before. 

But no unfading tints were those 
Which to my Ella's cheek arose : 
They please the raptured heart, and fly 
Before they pall the gazing eye. 



THE BLUSH. 

'Twas not the blush of guilt or shame 
Which o'er my Ella's features came : 
'Twas she who fed the poor distressed, 
'Twas she the indigent had blessed ; 

For her their prayers to heaven were raised, 
On her the grateful people gazed ; 
'Twas when the blush suffused her cheek, 
Which told what words can never speak. 



59 




A SONG. 

Tune, — Airs, Robinson's Farewell. 

Tell me not of joys departed, 

Or of childhood's happy hour ! 
When unconsciously I sported, 

Fresh as morning's dewy flower ! 

Tell me not of fair hopes blasted, 

Or of unrequited love ! 
Tell me not of fortune wasted, 

Or the web which Fate hath wove! 

One fond wish I long have cherished, 
I have twined it round my heart ! 

While all other hopes have perished, 
I with that could never part. 

On life's troubled, stormy ocean 

That bright star still shone serene .'' 

To that star, my heart's devotion 
Rose, at morning and at e'en ! 

And the hope that led me onward. 

Like a beacon shining bright, 
Was — that when this form had mouldered, 
I might wake to realms of light ! 



A SONG. 



6i 



Wake to bliss — that changes never ! 

Wake no more to hope or fear ! 
Wake to joys that bloom forever, 

Withered by no sigh, no tear ! 




ON AN ^OLIAN HARP. 

What heavenly music strikes my ravished ear, 
So soft, so melancholy, and so clear ? 
And do the tuneful Nine then touch the lyre, 
To fill each bosom with poetic fire? 

Or does some angel strike the sounding strings, 
Catching from echo the wild note he sings ? 
But hark ! another strain, how sweet, how wild ! 
Now rising high, now sinking low and mild. 

And tell me now, ye spirits of the wind, 
O, tell me where those artless notes to find ! 
So lofty now, so loud, so sweet, so clear, 
That even angels might delighted hear ! 

But hark ! those notes again majestic rise, 
As though some spirit, banished from the skies, 
Had hither fled to charm tEoIus wild. 
And teach him other music sweet and mild. 

Then hither fly, sweet mourner of the air. 
Then hither fly, and to my harp repair ; 
At twilight chant the melancholy lay. 
And charm the sorrows of thy soul away. 



THE COQUETTE. 

I HAE nae sleep, I hae nae rest, 

My Ellen's lost for aye, 
My heart is sair and much distressed, 

I surely soon must die. 

I canna think o' wark at a', 

My eyes still wander far, 
I see her neck like driven snaw, 

I see her flaxen hair. 

Sair, sair, I begged ; she would na' hear, 

She proudly turned awa', 
Unmoved she saw the trickling tear, 

Which, spite o' me, would fa'. 

She acted weel a conqueror's part, 

She triumphed in my woe. 
She gracefu' waved me to depart, 

I tried, but could na* go. 

"Ah why," (distractedly I cried,) 

" Why yield me to despair ? 
Bid lingering Hope resume her sway, 

To ease my heart sae sair." 



64 THE COQUETTE. 

She scornfu' smiled, and bade me go ! 

This roused my dormant pride ; 
I craved nae boon — I took nae leuk, 

" Adieu ! " I proudly cried. 

I fled ! nor Ellen hae I seen, 

Sin' that too fatal day : 
My " bosom's laird " sits heavy here, 

And Hope's fled far away. 

Care, darkly brooding, bodes a storm, 
I'm Sorrow's child indeed ; 

She stamps her image on my form, 
I wear the mourning weed ! 




ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. 

Sweet child, and hast thou gone, forever fled ? 
Low lies thy body in its grassy bed ; 
But thy freed soul swift bends its flight through air, 
Thy heavenly Father's gracious love to share. 

And now, methinks, I see thee clothed in white. 
Mingling with saints, like thee, celestial bright. 
Look down, sweet angel, on thy friends below. 
And mark their trickling tears of silent woe. 

Look down with pity in thy infant eye. 

And view the friends thou left, for friends on high. 

Methinks I see thee leaning from above. 

To whisper, to those friends, of peace and love : 

" Weep not for me, for I am happy still, 
And murmur not at our great Father's will ; 
Let not this blow your trust in Jesus shake. 
Our Saviour gave, and it is his to take. 

" Once you looked forward to life's opening day. 
The scene was bright, and pleasant seemed the way ; 
Hope drew the picture. Fancy, ever near. 
Colored it bright — 'tis blotted with a tear. 

5 



66 



ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. 



" Then let that tear be Resignation's child ; 
Yielding to Heaven's high will, be calm, be mild ; 
Weep for your child no more, she's happy still, 
And murmur not at your great Father's will." 




REFLECTIONS, 

ON CROSSING LAKE CHAMPLAIN IN THE STEAMBOAT " PHCENIX." 

Islet* on the lake's calm bosom, 
In thy breast rich treasures lie ; 

Heroes ! there your bones shall moulder, 
But your fame shall never die. 

Islet on the lake's calm bosom. 

Sleep serenely in thy bed ; 
Brightest gem our waves can boast, 

Guardian angel of the dead ! 

Calm upon the waves recline. 
Till great Nature's reign is o'er ; 

Until old and swift-winged time 
Sinks, and order is no more. 

Then thy guardianship shall cease. 

Then shall rock thy aged bed ; 
And when Heaven's last trump shall sound, 

Thou shalt yield thy noble dead ! 

* Crab Island ; on which were buried the remains of the sailors who 
fell in the action of September nth, 1814. 



THE STAR OF LIBERTY. 

There shone a gem on England's crown, 

Bright as yon star ; 
Oppression marked it with a frown, 
He sent his darkest spirit down, 
To quench the light that round it shone, 

Blazing afar. 
But Independence met the foe. 
And laid the swift-winged demon low. 

A second messenger was sent, 

Dark as the night ; 
On his dire errand swift he went, 
But Valor's bow was truly bent. 
Justice her keenest arrow lent. 

And sped its flight ; 
Then fell the impious wretch, and Death 
Approached, to take his withering breath. 

Valor then took, with hasty hand. 

The gem of light ; 
He flew to seek some other land. 
He flew to 'scape oppression's hand, 
He knew there was some other strand, 

More bright ; 
And as he swept the fields of air, 
He found a country, rich and fair. 



THE STAR OF LIBERTY. 69 

Upon its breast the star he placed, 

The star of Hberty : 

Bright, and more bright the meteor blazed, 

The lesser planets stood amazed. 

Astonished mortals, wondering, gazed. 

Looking on fearfully. 

That star shines brightly to this day, 

On thy calm breast, America ! 




ON SOLITUDE. 

Sweet Solitude, I love thy silent shade ! 

I love to pause when in life's mad career, 
To view the checkered path before me laid. 

And turn to meditate — to hope, to fear. 

'Tis sweet to draw the curtain on the world. 
To shut out all its tumult, all its care, — 

Leave the dread vortex, in which all are whirled, 
And to thy shades of twilight calm repair. 

Yet, Solitude, the hand divine, which made 
The earth, the ocean, and the realms of air. 

Pointed how far thy kingdom should extend. 

And bade thee pause, for He had fixed thee there. 

Then, when disgusted with the world and man. 
When sick of pageantry, of pomp, and pride. 

To thee I'll fly, in thee I'll seek relief, 

And hope to find that calm the world denied. 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SODOM AND GOMORRAH. 

" And he looked towards Sodom and Gomorrah, and lo ! the smoke of 
the country went up as the smoke of a furnace." 

O DREAD was the night, when o'er Sodom's wide plain 

The fire of heaven descended ; 
For all that then bloomed shall ne'er bloom there 
again, 

For man hath his Maker offended. 

The midnight of terror and woe hath passed by, 

The death-spirit's pinions are furled ; 
But the sun, as it beams clear and brilliant on high, 

Hides from Sodom's dark, desolate world. 

Here lies but that glassy, that death-stricken lake. 
As in mockery of what had been there ; 

The wild bird flies far from the dark nestling brake, 
Which waves its scorched arms in the air. 

In that city the wine-cup was brilliantly flowing, 
. Joy held her high festival there ; 
Not a fond bosom dreaming (in luxury glowing) 
Of the close of that night of despair. 



7 -J SODOM AND GOMORRAH. 

For the bride, her handmaiden the garland was 
wreathing, 

At the altar the bridegroom was waiting, 
But vengeance impatiently round them was breathing, 

And death at that shrine was their greeting. 

But the wine-cup is empty, and broken it lies. 

The lip which it foamed for, is cold ; 
For the red wing of Death o'er Gomorrah now flies, 

And Sodom is wrapped in its fold. 

The bride is wedded, but the bridegroom is Death, 
With his cold, damp, and grave-like hand ; 

Her pillow is ashes, the slime-weed her wreath, 
Heaven's flames are her nuptial band. 

And near to that cold, that desolate sea 

Whose fruits are to ashes now turned, 
Not a fresh-blown flower, not a budding tree, 

Now blooms where those cities were burned. 




THE WEE FLOWER OF THE HEATHER. 

Thou pretty wee flower, humble thing, 
Thou brightest jewel of the heath. 

Which waves at zephyr's lightest wing, 
And trembles at the softest breath ; 

Thou lovely bud of Scotia's land. 
Thou pretty fragrant Inirnie gem. 

By whispering breezes thou art fanned. 
And greenest leaves entwine thy stem. 

No raging tempest beats thee down, 
Or finds thee in thy safe retreat ; 

By no rough wintry winds thou'rt blown, 
Safe seated at the dark rock's feet. 




ON READING A FRAGMENT CALLED "THE 
FLOWER OF THE FOREST." 

Sing on, sweetest songster the woodland can boast ; 

Sing on, for it charms, though it sorrows my breast ; 
The strains, though so mournful, shall never be lost, 

Till this throbbing bosom has murmured to rest. 

The sweet Flower of the Forest on memory's page 
Shall bloom undecaying while life lingers near, 

Unhurt by the storms which around it shall rage, 
By sorrow's sigh fanned, and bedewed by a tear. 




TO MAMMA. 

Thy love inspires the Story-Teller's tongue. 
To tales of hearts with disappointment wrung, 
Thy love inspires ; fresh flows the copious stream, 
And what's not tj-ne, let fruitful fancy dream. 

The Story- Teller. 

THE PARTING OF DECOURCY AND WILHELMINE. 

Lo ! enthroned on golden clouds, 

Sinks the monarch of the day ; 
Now yon hill his glory shrouds, 

And his brilliance fades away. 

But as it fled, one ling'ring beam 

Played o'er yon spire, which points on high ; 

It cast one bright, one transient gleam, 
Then hastened from the deep'ning sky. 

Lo ! the red-tipped clouds remain 

But to tell of glories past ; 
Mark them gathering o'er the plain, 

Mark them fade away at last. 

The lake is calm, the breeze is still, 

Nor dares to whisper o'er a leaf; 
And nothing save the murm'ring rill, 

Can give the vacant ear relief 



76 PARTING OF DECOURCY AND WILHELMINE. 

Around yon hawthorn in the vale, 

White garments float hke evening mist : 

'Tis Wilhelmine ; and cold and pale, 
A simple marble stone she kissed. 

She knelt her by a lowly tomb, 

And wreathed its urn anew with flowers ; 

She taught the white rose there to bloom. 
And watered it with sorrow's showers. 

Like raven's wing, her glossy hair 

In ringlets floated on the gale, 
Or hung upon a brow as fair 

As snow-curl crested in the vale. 

And her dark eye, which rolls so wild, 
Once brightly sparkled with hope's light, 

For Wilhelmine was pleasure's child, 

When fortune's smiles shone sweetly bright. 



Decourcy loved — the morn was clear, 
And fancy promised bliss ; 

For now the happy hour was near, 
Which made the maiden his. 

And Wilhelmine sat smiling sweet 
Beneath the spreading tree ; 

Her nimble foot was quick to meet, 
Her glancing eye to see. 



PARTING OF DECOURCY AND WILHELMINE. 77 

Decourcy came upon his steed, 

His brow and cheek were pale ; 
"Speak — speak, Decourcy!" cried the maid, 
"Tis sure a dreadful tale." 

"My love, my Wilhelmine," cried he, 

" Be calm and fear thee not ; 
In battle I will think on thee. 

And O, forget me not. 

" Adieu ! " he clasped her to his breast. 

And kissed the trickling tear 
Which 'neath her half-closed eyelids prest 

And ling'ring glistened there. 

He gazed upon that death-like face. 

So beautiful before ; 
He gazed upon that shrine of grace. 

And dared to gaze no more. 

He trembled, pressed his burning brow, 

And closed his aching eyes : 
His limbs refuse their office now. 

The maid before him lies. 

But hark ! the trumpet's warhke sound 

Echoes from hill to vale ; 
He caught the maiden from the ground, 

And kissed her forehead pale. 

Why should Decourcy linger there. 
When the bugle bids him speed '>. 



78 PARTING OF DECOURCY AND WILHELMINE. 

One long last look of calm despair, 
And he springs upon his steed ; 

He strikes the sting of his bloody spur 

In his foaming courser's side, 
And he gallops on where the wave of war 

Rolls on with its bursting tide. 

Whose was the sword that flashed so bright, 

Like the flaming brand of heaven ? 
And whose the plume, that from morn till night 

Was a star to the hopeless given ? 

'Twas thine, Decourcy! that terrible sword 

Hath finished its work of death ; 
But the hand which raised it on high is lowered 

To the damp green earth beneath. 

The sun went down, and its parting ray 

Smiled sorrow across the earth, 
The light breeze moaned — then died away, 

And the stars rose up in mirth. 

And the timid moon looked down with a smile 

On the blood-stained battle ground. 
And the groans of the wounded rose up the while 

With a sad, heart-rending sound, — 

While the spectre-form of some grief-worn man 

Steals slowly and silently by. 
Each corpse to note — each face to scan. 

For his friend on that field doth lie. 



PARTING OF DECOURCY AND WILHELMINE. 79 

But whose is the figure dimly seen 

By the trembling moonbeam's light ? 
'Tis the form of the weeping Wilhelmine, 

And she kneels by the slaughtered knight. 

Weep not for the dead, for he died 'mid the din, 

And the rapturous shouts of strife, 
And the bright sword hath ushered his soul within 

The portals of future life. 

Weep not for the dead ! who would not die 

As that gallant soldier died .-' 
With a field of glory whereon to lie, 

And his foeman dead beside. 

A year passed by, and a simple tomb 

Rose up 'neath a willow tree ; 
'Twas decked with flowers in vernal bloom 

As fresh as flowers could be ; 

And oft as the twilight's dusky gleam 

O'er the scene was gently stealing. 
The form of the sorrowful maid was seen 

By the grave of her lover kneeling. 

But wild is the glance of her dove-like eye, 

And her cheek, O how pale and fair 
And the mingled smile, and the deep-drawn sigh, 

Show that reason 's no longer there. 



8o PARTING OF DECOURCY AND WILHELMINE. 

Another year passed, and another grave 
'Neath the willow tree is seen ; 

By the side of her lover, Decourcy the brave, 
Lay the corpse of Wilhelmine. 




AN ADDRESS TO MY MUSE. 

Why, gentle Muse, wilt thou disdain 

To lend thy strains to me? 
Why do I supplicate in vain 

And bow my heart to thee ? 

O ! teach me how to touch the lyre, 
To tune the trembling chord ; 

Teach me to fill each heart with fire, 
And melting strains afford. 

Sweep but thy hand across the string, 

The woodlands echo round, 
And mortals wond'ring, as you sing. 

Delighted catch each sound. 

Enchanted when thy voice I hear, 

I drop each earthly care ; 
T feel as wafted from the world 

To Fancy's realms of air. 

Then as I wander, plaintive sing, 

And teach me every strain ; 
Teach me to touch the trembling string 

Which now I strike in vain. 
6 



THE MERMAID. 

Maid of the briny wave and raven lock, 

Whose bed 's the sea- weed, and whose throne 's the rock, 

Tell me, what fate compels thee thus to ride 

O'er the tempestuous ocean's foaming tide ? 

Art thou some naiad, who, at Neptune's nod, 
Flies to obey the mandate of that god ? 
Art thou the siren, who, when night draws on, 
Chantest thy farewell to the setting sun ? 

Or, leaning on thy wave-encircled rock. 
Twining with lily hand thy raven lock. 
Dost thou, in accents wild, proclaim the storm 
Which soon shall wrap the unwary sailor's form ? 

Or dost thou round the wild Charybdis play, 
To warn the seaman from his dangerous way ? 
Or, shrieking midst the tempest, chant the dirge 
Of shipwrecked sailors, buried in the surge? 

Tell me, mysterious being, what you are ? 
So wild, so strange, so lonely, yet so fair ! 
Tell me, O tell me, why you sit alone. 
Singing so sweetly on the wave-washed stone ? 

And tell me, that if e'er I find my grave 
Beneath the ocean's wildly troubled wave, 
That thou with weeds wilt strew my watery bed, 
And hush the roaring billows o'er my head. 
1823. 



ON THE BIRTH OF A SISTER. 

Sweet babe, I cannot hope thou wilt be freed 
From woes, to all since earliest time decreed ; 
But mayest thou be with resignation blessed, 
To bear each evil, howsoe'er distressed. 

May Hope her anchor lend amid the storm. 
And o'er the tempest rear her angel form ! 
May sweet Benevolence, whose words are peace. 
To the rude whirlwinds softly whisper, " Cease ! " 

And may Religion, Heaven's own darling child, 
Teach thee at human cares and griefs to smile ; 
Teach thee to look beyond this world of woe. 
To Heaven's high fount, whence mercies ever flow. 

And when this vale of tears is safely passed, 
When Death's dark curtain shuts the scene at last, 
May thy freed spirit leave this earthly sod, 
And fly to seek the bosom of thy God. 



A DREAM. 

Methought (unwitting how the place I gained) 

I rested on a fleecy, floating cloud 

Far o'er the earth, the stars, the sun, the heavens, 

And slowly wheeled around the dread expanse ! 

Sudden, methought, a trumpet's voice was heard, 

Pealing with long, loud, death-awakening note. 

Such note as mortal man but once may hear ! 

At that heart-piercing summons, there arose 

A crowd fast pouring from the troubled earth ! 

The earth, that blackened speck, alone seemed moved 

By the dread note, which rushed. 

Like pent-up whirlwinds, round Heaven's azure vault ; 

All other worlds, all other twinkling stars 

Stood mute — stood motionless ; 

Their time had not yet come. 

Yet, ever and anon, they seemed to bow 

Before the dread tribunal ; 

And the fiery comet, as it blazed along, 

Stopped in its midway course, as conscious of the 

power • 

Which onward ever, ever had impelled : 
No other planet moved, none seemed convulsed, 
Save the dim orb of earth ! 

Forth eddying rushed a crowd, confused and dark. 
Like a volcano, muttering and subdued ! 
There came no sound distinct, but sighs and groans 



A DREAM. 85 

And murmurings half suppressed, half uttered ! 

All eyes were upward turned in wonder and in fear, 

But soon, methought, they onward rolled 

To the dread High One's bar. 

As the tumultuous billows rush murmuring to the 

shore, 
And all distinctions dwindled into naught. 
Upward I cast my eyes ; 

High on an azure throne, begirt with clouds, 
Sate the dread Indescribable ! 
He raised his sceptre, waved it o'er the crowd, 
And all was calm and silent as the grave ! 
He rose ; the cherubs flapped their snowy wings ! 
On came the rushing wind — the throne was moved. 
And flew like gliding swan above the crowd ! 
Sudden it stopped o'er the devoted world ! 
The Judge moved forward 'mid his sable shroud. 
Raised his strong arm with rolling thunders clothed, 
Held forth a vial filled with wrathful fire. 
Then poured the contents on the waiting globe ! 
Sudden the chain, which bound it to God's throne. 
Snapped with a dire explosion ! 
On wheeled the desolate — the burning orb 
Swift through the heavens ! 

Down, down it plunged ; then shot across the expanse, 
Blazing through realms where light had never pierced ! 
Down, down it plunged, fast wheeling from above, 
Shooting forth flames, and sparks, and burning brands, 
Trailing from shade to shade 
Then bounding, blazing brighter than before, 
It plunged extinguished in the chaotic gulf! 



TO MY SISTER. 

When evening spreads her shades around, 
And darkness fills the arch of heaven ; 

When not a murmur, not a sound 
To Fancy's sportive ear is given ; 

When the broad orb of heaven is bright, 
And looks around with golden eye ; 

When Nature, softened by her light, 
Seems calmly, solemnly to lie ; 

Then, when our thoughts are raised above 
This world, and all this world can give, 

O sister, sing the song I love. 
And tears of gratitude receive. 

The song which thrills my bosom's core, 
And, hovering, trembles, half afraid ; 

O sister, sing the song once more 

Which ne'er for mortal ear was made. 

'Twere almost sacrilege to sing 

Those notes amid the glare of day ; 

Notes borne by angels' purest wing, 
And wafted by their breath away. 



TO MY SISTER. 



87 



When sleeping in my grass-grown bed, 
Shouldst thou still Hnger here above, 

Wilt thou not kneel beside my head, 
And, sister, sing the song I love ? 




CUPID'S BOWER. 

Am I in fairy-land ? or tell me, pray, 
To what love-lighted bower I've found my way ? 
Sure luckless wight was never more beguiled 
In woodland maze, or closely tangled wild. 

And is this Cupid's realm ? if so, good-by ! 
Cupid, and Cupid's votaries, I fly ; 
No offering to his altar do I bring. 
No bleeding heart — or hymeneal ring. 

What though he proudly marshals his array 
Of conquered hearts, still bleeding in his way, 
Of sighs, of kisses sweet, of glances sly. 
Playing around some darkly beauteous eye ? 

What though the rose of beauty, opening wide. 
Blooms but for him, and fans his lordly pride ? 
What though his garden boasts the fairest flower 
That ever dew-drop kissed, or pearly shower ? 

Still, Cupid, I'm no votary to thee ; 
Thy torch of light will never blaze for me ; 
I ask no glance of thine, I ask no sigh ; 
I brave thy fury, and thus boldly fly ! 



CUPID'S BOWER. 

Adieu, then, and for evermore, adieu ! 
Ye poor entangled ones, farewell to you ! 
And, O ye powers ! a hapless mortal prays 
For guidance through this labyrinthine maze. 



89 




THE FAMILY TIME-PIECE. 

Friend of my heart, thou monitor of youth, 
Well do I love thee, dearest child of truth, 
Though many a lonely hour thy whisperings low 
Have made sad chorus to the notes of woe. 

Or 'mid the happy hour which joyful flew, 
Thou still wert faithful, still unchanged, still true ; 
Or when the task employed my infant mind, 
Oft have I sighed to see thee lag behind ; 

And watched thy finger, with a youthful glee. 
When it had pointed, silently, " Be free : " 
Thou wert my mentor through each passing year; 
'Mid pain or pleasure, thou wert ever near. 

And when the wings of time unnoticed flew, 
I paused, reflected, wondered, turned to you ; 
Paused in my heedless round, to mark thy hand. 
Pointing to conscience, like a magic wand ; 

To watch thee stealing on thy silent way. 

Silent, but sure, time's pinions cannot stay ; 

How many hours of pleasure, hours of pain. 

When smiles were bright'ning round affliction's train ? 

How many hours of poverty and woe. 
Which taught cold drops of agony to flow ? 




■J?ei-//ei:/-r^-^ 



THE FAMILY TIME-PIECE. 9 1 

How many hours of war, of blood, of death, 
Which added laurels to the victor's wreath ? 

How many deep-drawn sighs thy hand hath told, 
And dimmed the smile, and dried the tear which 

rolled 
When the loud cannon spoke the voice of war. 
And death and bloodshed whirled their crimson car ? 

When the proud banner, waving in the breeze, 
Had welcomed war, and bade adieu to peace. 
Thy faithful finger traced the wing of time. 
Pointed to earth, and then to heaven sublime. 

Unmoved amid the carnage of the world. 
When thousands to eternity were hurled, 
Thy head was reared aloft, truth's chosen child, 
Beaming serenely through the troubled wild. 

Friend of my youth, ere from its mould'ring clay 
My joyful spirit wings to heaven its way, 
O may'st thou watch beside my aching head. 
And tell how fast time flits with feathered tread. 



ON THE 
EXECUTION OF MAR*i^ QUEEN OF SCOTS. 

Touch not the heart, for Sorrow's voice 
Will mingle in the chorus wild ; 

When Scotland weeps, canst thou rejoice? 
No : rather mourn her murdered child. 

Sing how on Carberry's mount of blood, 
'Mid foes exulting in her doom, 

The captive Mary fearless stood, 
A helpless victim for the tomb. 

Justice and Mercy, 'frighted, fled, 

And shrouded was Hope's beacon blaze, 

When, like a lamb to slaughter led, 
Poor Mary met her murderers' gaze. 

Calm was her eye as yon dark lake, 
And changed her once angelic form ; 

No sigh was heard the pause to break. 
That awful pause before the storm. 

O draw the veil, 'twere shame to gaze 

Upon the bloody tragedy ; 
But lo ! a brilliant halo plays 

Around the hill of Carberry. 



EXECUTION OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 93 

'Tis done — and Mary's soul has flown 
Beyond this scene of blood and death ; 

'Tis done — the lovely saint has gone 
To claim in heaven a thornless wreath. 

But as Elijah, when his car 

Wheeled on towards heaven its path of light, 
Dropped on his friend, he left afar, 

His mantle, like a meteor bright; 

So Mary, when her spirit flew 

Far from this world, so sad, so weary, 

A crown of fame immortal threw 
Around the brow of Carberry. 




RUTH'S ANSWER TO NAOMI. 

Entreat me not, I must not hear ; 
Mark but this sorrow-beaming tear ; 
Thy answer's written deeply now 
On this warm cheek and clouded brow ; 
'Tis gleaming o'er this eye of sadness, 
Which only near thee sparkles gladness. 

The hearts most dear to us are gone, 
And tJiou and / are left alone ; 
Where'er thou wanderest, I will go, 
I'll follow thee through joy or woe ; 
Shouldst thou to other countries fly, 
Where'er thou lodgest, there will I. 

Thy people shall my people be. 
And to thy God I'll bend the knee ; 
Whither thou fliest, will I fly. 
And where thou diest, I will die ; 
And the same sod which pillows thee 
Shall freshly, sweetly bloom for me. 



DAVID AND JONATHAN. 

On the brow of Gilboa is war's bloody stain, — 
The pride and the beauty of Israel is slain ! 
O publish it not in proud Askelon's street, 
Nor tell it in Gath, lest in triumph they meet, 

For how are the mighty fallen ! 

O mount of Gilboa, no dew shalt thou see, 
Save the blood of the Philistine fall upon thee ; 
For the strong-pinioned eagle of Israel is dead ; 
Thy brow is his pillow, thy bosom his bed ! 

O how are the mighty fallen ! 

Weep, daughters of Israel, weep o'er his grave ! 
What breast will now pity, what arm will now save ? 
O my brother ! my brother ! this heart bleeds for thee. 
For thou wert a friend and a brother to me ! 

Ah, how are the mighty fallen ! 




THE SICK-BED. 

O HAVE you watched beside the bed, 
Where rests the weary, aching head ? 
And have you heard the long, deep groan, 
The low-said prayer, in half-breathed tone ? 

O have you seen the fevered sleep, 
Which speaks of agony within ? 

The eye which would, but cannot weep, 
And wipe away the stains of sin ? 

O have you marked the struggling breath, 
Which would but cannot leave its clay ? 

And have you marked the hand of death 
Unbind, and bid it haste away ? 

Then thou hast seen what thou shalt feel ; 

Then thou hast read thy future doom ; 
O pause, one moment, o'er death's seal ; 

There's no repentance in the tomb. 



BYRON. 

His faults were great, his virtues less, 
His mind a burning lamp of heaven ; 

His talents were bestowed to bless, 
But were as vainly lost as given. 

His was a harp of heavenly sound, 

The numbers wild, and bold, and clear ; 

But ah ! some demon, hovering round, 
Tuned its sweet chords to Sin and Fear. 

His was a mind of giant mould. 

Which grasped at all beneath the skies ; 
And his a heart, so icy cold, 
That virtue in its recess dies. 
1823. 
7 




THE BACHELOR. 

To the world {whose dread laugh he would tremble 

to hear, 
From whose scorn he would shrink with a cowardly 

fear) 
The old bachelor proudly and boldly will say, 
Single lives are the longest, single lives are most gay. 

To the ladies, with pride, he will always declare. 
That the links in love's chain are strife, trouble, and 

care ; 
That a wife is a torment, and he will have none. 
But at pleasure will roam through the wide world 

alone. 

And let him pass on, in his sulky of state ; 

O say, who would envy that mortal his fate ? 

To brave all the ills of life's tempest alone, 

Not a heart to respond the warm notes of his own. 

His joys undivided no longer will please ; 

The warm tide of his heart through inaction will 

freeze : 
His sorrows concealed, and unanswered his sighs, 
The old bachelor curses his folly, and dies. 



THE BACHELOR. 99 

Pass on, then, proud lone one, pass on to thy fate ; 
Thy sentence is sealed, thy repentance too late ; 
Like an arrow, which leaves not a trace on the wind, 
No mark of thy pathway shall linger behind. 

Not a sweet voice shall murmur its sighs o'er thy 

tomb ; 
Not a fair hand shall teach thy lone pillow to bloom ; 
Not a kind tear shall water thy dark, lonely bed : 
By the living 'twas scorned, 'tis refused to the dead. 




ON THE CREW OF A VESSEL 

WHO WERE FOUND DEAD AT SEA. 

The breeze blew fair, the waving sea 

Curled sparkling round the vessel's side ; 

The canvas spread with bosom free 
Its swan-like pinions o'er the tide. 

Evening had gemmed with glittering stars 
Her coronet so darkly grand ; 

The Queen of Night, with fleecy clouds, 
Had formed her turban's snowy band. 

On, on the stately vessel flew, 

With streamer waving far and wide ; 

When lo ! a bark appeared in view, 
And gayly danced upon the tide. 

Each way the breeze its wild wing veered. 
That way the stranger vessel turned ; 

Now near she drew, now wafted far, 
She fluttered, trembled, and returned. 

" It is the pirates' cursed bark ! 
The villains linger to decoy ! 
Thus bounding o'er the waters dark. 
They seek to lure, and then destroy. 



ON THE CREW OF A VESSEL. mr 

" Perchance those strange and wayward signs 
May be the signals of distress," 
The Captain cried, " for mark ye, now. 
Her sails are flapping wide and loose." 

And now the stranger, vessel came 
Near to that gay and gallant bark ; 

It seemed a wanderer far and lone, 
Upon life's wave, so deep and dark. 

And not a murmur, not a sound. 

Came from that lone and dreary ship ; 

The icy chains of silence bound 
Each rayless eye and pallid lip. 

For Death's wing had been waving there, 
The cold dew hung on every brow. 

And sparkled there like angel tears. 
Shed o'er the silent crew below. 

Onward that ship was gayly flying. 
Its bosom was the sailor's grave ; 
The breeze 'mid the shrouds, in low notes, sighing 
Their requiem over the brave. 

Fly on, fly on, thou lone vessel of death, 

Fly on with thy desolate crew ; 
For mermaids are twining a sea-weed wreath, 



'Mons: the red coral erroves for 



't> 



you. 



WOMAN'S LOVE. 

They told me of her history. Her love 
Was a neglected flame, which had consumed 
The vase wherein it kindled. O how fraught 
With bitterness is unrequited love ! 
To know that we have cast life's hope away 
On a vain shadow ! 

Hers was a gentle passion, quiet, deep, 
As a woman's love should be, 
All tenderness and silence, only known 
By the soft meaning of a downcast eye. 
Which almost fears to look its timid thoughts ; 
A sigh, scarce heard ; a blush, scarce visible. 
Alone may give it utterance. Love is 
A beautiful feeling in a woman's heart. 
When felt as only woman love can feel ! 
Pure as the snow-fall, when its latest shower 
Sinks on spring-flowers ; deep as a cave-locked foun- 
tain ; 
And changeless as the cypress's green leaves. 
And like them, sad ! She nourished 
Fond hopes and sweet anxieties, and fed 
A passion unconfessed, till he she loved 
Was wedded to another. Then she grew 
Moody and melancholy ; one alone 
Had power to soothe her in her wanderings, — 
Her gentle sister ; but that sister died, 



WOMAN'S LOVE. 

And the unhappy girl was left alone, 
A maniac. She would wander far, and shunned 
Her own accustomed dwelling ; and her haunt 
Was that dead sister's grave : and that to her 
Was as a home. 



103 







TO A LADY, 

WHOSE SINGING RESEMBLED THAT OF AN ABSENT SISTER. 

O ! TOUCH the chord yet once again, 

Nor chide me/ though I weep the while ; 

Beheve me, that deep seraph strain 

Bore with it memory's moonlight smile. 

It murmured of an absent friend ; 
. The voice, the air, 'twas all her own ; 
And hers those wild, sweet notes which blend 
In one mild, murmuring, touching tone. 

And days and months have darkly passed. 

Since last I listened to her lay ; 
And Sorrow's cloud its shade hath cast. 

Since then, across my weary way. 

Yet still the strain comes sweet and clear, 
Like seraph-whispers, lightly breathed ; 

Hush, busy memory. Sorrow's tear 
Will blight the garland thou hast wreathed. 

'Tis sweet, though sad — yes, I will stay, 
I cannot tear myself away. 



TO A LADY. 



105 



I thank thee, lady, for the strain ; 

The tempest of my soul is still ; 
Then touch the chord yet once again, 

For thou canst calm the storm at will ! 




ON SEEING 
A PICTURE OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN MARY, 

PAINTED SEVERAL CENTURIES SINCE. 
A FRAGMENT. 

Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell 

Of book, of rosary, and bell ; 

Of cloistered nun, with brow of gloom, 

Immured within her living tomb ; 

Of monks, of saints, and vesper-song, 

Borne gently by the breeze along ; 

Of deep-toned organ's pealing swell ; 

Of Ave Marie, and funeral knell ; 

Of midnight taper, dim and small. 

Just glimmering through the high-arched hall ; 

Of gloomy cell, of penance lone. 

Which can for darkest deeds atone : 

Roll back, and lift the veil of night, 

For I would view the anchorite. 

Yes, there he sits, so sad, so pale, 

Shuddering at Superstition's tale : 

Crossing his breast with meagre hand, 

While saints and priests, a motley band, 

Arrayed before him, urge their claim 

To heal in the Redeemer's name ; 



ON SEEING A PICTURE. 107 

To mount the saintly ladder (made 

By every monk, of every grade, 

From portly abbot, fat and fair, 

To yon lean starveling, shivering there), 

And mounting thus, to usher in 

The soul, thus ransomed from its sin. 

And tell me, hapless bigot, why, 

For what, for whom did Jesus die. 

If pyramids of saints must rise 

To form a passage to the skies ? 

And think you man can wipe away 

With fast and penance, day by day. 

One single sin, too dark to fade 

Before a bleeding Saviour's shade ? 

O ye of little faith, beware ! 

For neither shrift, nor saint, nor prayer. 

Will aught avail ye without Him 

Beside whom saints themselves grow dim. 

Roll back, thou tide of time, and raise 

The faded forms of other days ! 

Yon time-worn picture, darkly grand. 

The work of some forgotten hand. 

Will teach thee half thy mazy way, 

While Fancy's watch-fires dimly play ; 

Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell 

Of secret charm, of holy spell. 

Of Superstition's midnight rite. 

Of wild Devotion's seraph flight, 

Of Melancholy's tearful eye. 

Of the sad votaress' frequent sigh. 

That trembling from her bosom rose, 

Divided ' 'twixt her Saviour's woes 



io8 ON SEEING A PICTURE. 

And some warm image lingering there, 
Which, half-repulsed by midnight prayer, 
Still, like an outcast child, will creep 
Where sweetly it was wont to sleep, 
And mingle its unhallowed sigh 
With cloister-prayer and rosary ; 
Then tell the pale deluded one 
Her vows are breathed to God alone : 
Those vows, which tremulously rise. 
Love's last, love's sweetest sacrifice. 

[Unfinished^ 




AMERICAN POETRY. 



A FRAGMENT. 



Must every shore ring boldly to the voice 

Of sweet poetic harmony, save this ? 

Rouse thee, America ! for shame ! for shame ! 

Gather thy infant bands, and rise to join 
Thy glimmering taper to the holy flame : 

Such honor, if no other, may be thine. 
Shall Gallia's children sing beneath the yoke .'' 

Shall Ireland's harp-strings thrill, though all un- 
strung .-• 
And must America, her bondage broke. 

Oppression's blood-stains from her garment wrung, 
Must she be silent .-' Who may then rejoice .'' 

If she be tuneless, Harmony, farewell ! 
O ! shame, America ! wild Freedom's voice 

Echoes, " shame on thee," from her wild-wood dell. 
Shall conquered Greece still sing her glories past ? 
Shall humbled Italy in ruins smile .'* 
And canst thou then — {Unfinished^ 




HEADACHE. 

Headache ! thou bane to Pleasure's fairy spell, 
Thou fiend, thou foe to joy, I know thee well ! 
Beneath thy lash I've writhed for many an hour, — 
I hate thee, for I've known and dread thy power. 

Even the heathen gods were made to feel 
The aching torments which thy hand can deal ; 
And Jove, the ideal king of heaven and earth, 
Owned thy dread power, which called stern Wisdom 
forth. 

Wouldst thou thus ever bless each aching head, 
And bid Minerva make the brain her bed. 
Blessings might then be taught to rise from woe, 
And Wisdom spring from every throbbing brow. 

But always the reverse to me, unkind. 

Folly forever dogs thee close behind ; 

And from this burning brow, her cap and bell, 

Forever jingle Wisdom's funeral knell. 



TO A STAR. 

Thou brightly glittering star of even, 

Thou gem upon the brow of heaven, 

O ! were this fluttering spirit free. 

How quick 'twould spread its wings to thee. 

How calmly, brightly dost thou shine, 
Like the pure lamp in Virtue's shrine ! 
Sure the fair world which thou mayst boast 
Was never ransomed, never lost. 

There, beings pure as heaven's own air, 
Their hopes, their joys, together share ; 
While hovering angels touch the string. 
And seraphs spread the sheltering wing. 

There cloudless days and brilliant nights, 
Illumed by heaven's -refulgent lights ; 
There seasons, years, unnoticed roll, 
And unregretted by the soul. 

Thou little sparkling star of even, 
Thou gem upon an azure heaven. 
How swiftly will I soar to thee. 
When this imprisoned soul is free ! 



SONG OF VICTORY, 

ON THE DEATH OF GOLIATH. 

Strike with joy the wild harp's string, 
God, O Israel, is your King ! 
We have slain our deadliest foe, 
David's arm hath laid him low. 

Saul hath oft his thousands slain. 

His trophies have bedecked the plain ; 

But David's tens of thousands lie 

In slaughtered millions, mounted high. 

Sound the trumpet — strike the string, 
Loud let the song of victory ring ; 
Wreathe with glory David's brow, 
He hath laid Goliath low. 

Mark him on yon crimson plain ; 
He is conquered — he is slain ; 
He who lately rose so high. 
Scoffed at man, and braved the sky. 

Strike with joy the wild harp's string, 
God, O Israel, is your King ! 
We have slain our deadliest foe, 
David's arm hath laid him low. 



THE INDIAN CHIEF AND CONCONAY. 

The Indian Chieftain is far away, 

Through the forest his footsteps fly ; 
But his heart is behind him with Conconay, 
He thinks of his love in the bloody fray, 

When the storm of war is high. 

But little he thinks of the bloody foe 

Who is bearing that love away ; 
And little he thinks of her bosom's woe, 
And little he thinks of the burning brow 

Of his lovely Conconay. 

They tore her away from her friends, from her home. 

They tore her away from her Chief; 
Through the wild-wood, when weary, they forced her 

to roam, 
Or to dash the light oar in the river's white foam. 

While her bosom o'erflowed with grief. 

But there came a foot, 'twas swift, 'twas light, 

'Twas the brother of him she loved ; 
His heart was kind, and his eye was bright ; 
He paused not by day, and he slept not by night, 

While through the wild forest he roved. 

8 



114 THP: INDIAN CHIEF AND CONGO NAY. 

'Twas Lightfoot, the generous, 'twas Lightfoot the 
young, 
And he loved the sweet Conconay ; 
But his bosom to honor and virtue was strung, " 
And the chords of his heart should to breaking be 
wrung 
Ere love should gain o'er him the sway. 

Far, far from her stern foes he bore her away, 

And sought his own forest once more ; 
But sad was the heart of the young Conconay, 
Her bosom recoiled when she strove to be gay. 
And was even more drear than before. 

'Tis evening, and weary, and faint, and weak 

Is the beautiful Conconay ; 
She could wander no farther, she strove to speak, 
But lifeless she sunk upon Lightfoot's neck, 

And seemed breathing her soul away. 

The young warrior raised his eyes to heaven. 

He turned them towards the west ; 
For one moment a ray of light was given. 
Like lightning, which through the cloud hath riven, 

But to strike at the fated breast. 

For there was his brother returning from far. 

O'er his shoulder his scalps were slung ; 
For he had been victor amid the war. 
His plume had gleamed like the polar star. 
And on him had the victory hung. 



THE INDIAN CHIEF AND CONCONAY. 115 

The Chieftain paused in his swift career, 

For he knew his Conconay ; 
He saw the maid his heart held dear, 
On his brother's breast, in the forest drear, 

From her home so far away. 

He bent his bow, the arrow flew, 

It was aimed at Lightfoot's breast ; 
And it pierced a heart as warm and true 
As ever a mortal bosom knew. 

Or in mortal garb was dressed. 

He turned to his love — from her brilliant eye 

The cloud was passing away ; 
She let fall a tear — she breathed a sigh — 
She turned towards Lightfoot — she uttered a cry, 

For weltering in gore he lay. 

Her heart was filled with horror and woe. 

When she gazed on the form of her Chief; 
'Twas his loved hand that had bent the bow, 
'Twas he who had laid her preserver low ; 
And she yielded her soul to grief 

And 'twas said, that ere time had healed the wound 

In the breast of the mourning maid. 
That a pillar was reared on the fatal ground. 
And ivy the snow-white monument crowned 

With its dark and jealous shade. 



THE MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR HER INFANT. 

Cold is his brow, and the dew of the evening 
Hangs damp o'er that form I so fondly caressed ; 

Dim is that eye which once sparkled with gladness ; 
Hushed are the griefs of my infant at rest. 

Calmly he lies on a bosom far colder 

Than that which once pillowed his health-blushing 
cheek ; 
Calmly he'll rest there, and silently moulder. 

No grief to disturb him, no sigh to awake. 

Dread king of the grave, O ! return me my child ! 

Unfetter his heart from the cold chains of death ! 
Monarch of terrors, so gloomy, so silent, 

Loose the adamant clasp of thy cold, icy wreath ! 

Where is my infant ? the storms may descend. 
The snows of the winter may cover his head ; 

The wing of the wind o'er his low couch may bend, 
And the frosts of the night sparkle bright o'er the 
dead. 

Where is my mfant ? the damp ground is cold, 
Too cold for those features so laughing and light ; 

Methinks these fond arms should encircle his form. 
And shield off the tempest which wanders at night. 



THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. 



117 



This fond bosom loved him, ah ! loved him too dearly, 
And the frail idol fell, while I bent to adore ; 

All its beauty has faded, and broken before me 
Is the god my heart ventured to worship before. 

'Tis just, and I bow 'neath the mandate of Heaven ; 

Thy will, O my Father, forever be done ! 
Bless God, O my soul, for the chastisement given, 

Henceforth will I worship my Saviour alone ! 




ON THE MOTTO OF A SEAL. 
"IF I LOSE THEE, I AM LOST." 

ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND. 

Wafted o'er a treacherous sea, 
Far from home, and far from thee, 
Between the heaven and ocean tossed, 
" If I lose thee, I am lost." 

When the polar star is beaming. 
O'er the dark-browed billows gleaming, 
I think of thee and dangers crossed, 
For " If I lose thee, I am lost." 

When the light-house fire is blazing, 
High towards heaven its red crust raising, 
I think of thee, while onward tossed, 
For " If I lose thee, I am lost." 




SHAKESPEARE. 

Shakespeare ! " with all thy faults (and few have 

more) 
I love thee still," and still will con thee o'er. 
Heaven, in compassion to man's erring heart. 
Gave thee of virtue, then of vice a part, 
Lest we, in wonder here, should bow before thee. 
Break God's commandment, worship, and adore thee : 
But admiration now, and sorrow join; 
His works we reverence, while we pity thine. 




TO A LADY RECOVERING FROM SICKNESS. 

There is a charm in the paUid cheek, 
A charm which the tongue can never speak, 
When the hand of sickness has withered awhile. 
The rose which had bloomed in the rays of a smile. 

There is a charm in the heavy eye. 
When the tear of sorrow is passing by. 
Like a summer shower o'er yon vault of blue, 
Or the violet trembling 'neath drops of dew. 

It spreads around a shade as light 
As daylight blending with the night ; 
Or 'tis like the tints of an evening sky, 
And soft as the breathing of sorrow's si&h. 




THE VISION. 

'TwAS evening — all was calm and silent, save 
The low, hoarse clashing of the distant wave ; 
The whip-poor-will had closed his pensive lay, 
Which sweetly mourned the sun's declining ray ; 
Tired of a world surcharged with pain and woe, 
Weary of heartless forms and all below. 
Broken each tie, bereft of every friend, 
Whose sympathy might consolation lend. 
And musing on each vain and earthly toy, 
Walked the once gay and still brave Oleroy. 
Thus lost in thought, unconsciously he strayed, 
When a dark forest wild around him laid. 
In vain he tried the beaten path to gain. 
He sought it earnestly, but sought in vain ; 
At length o'ercome, he sunk upon the ground. 
Where the dark ivy twined its branches round : 
Sudden there rose upon his wandering ear. 
Notes which e'en angels might delighted hear. 
Now low they murmur, now majestic rise. 
As though " some spirit banished from the skies " 
Had there repaired to tune the mournful lay, 
" And chase the sorrows of his soul away." 
They ceased — when lo ! a brilliant dazzling light 
Illumed the wood and chased the shades of night ; 
He raised his head ; there stood, near Oleroy, 
The beauteous figure of a smiling boy ; 



1^2 THE VISION. 

Across his shoulder hung an ivory horn, 
With jewels glittering like the rays of morn ; 
In his white hand he held the tuneful lyre, 
And in his eyes there beamed a heavenly fire ; 
Approaching Oleroy, he smiling cried, — 
You hate the world and all its charms deride, 
You hate the world and all it doth contain, 
Condemn each joy, and call each pleasure pain ; 
Then come, he sweetly cried, come, follow me. 
Another world thy sorrowing eyes shall see. 

No sooner said than swift the smiling boy 
Led from the bower the wond'ring Oleroy. 
Beneath a tree three sylph-like forms recline ; 
Each form was beauteous, and each face benign ; 
Beside them stood a chariot dazzling bright. 
Yoked with two beauteous swans of purest white ; 
They mount the chariot, and ascend on high ; 
They bend the lash, on winged winds they fly ; 
Above the spacious globe they stretch their flight ; 
That globe seemed now but as a cloud of night. 
Swift towards the moon the white swans bend th; 

way. 
And a new world its treasures doth display. 
They halt ; before them rocks and hills are spread, 
And birds, and beasts, which at their footsteps fled. 
Another moon emits a softer ray, 
And other moonbeams on the waters play : 
They wander on, and reach a darksome cave, 
Against whose side loud roars the dashing wave : 
These words upon its rugged front appear, — 



THE VISION. 



123 



" What in your world is lost, is treasured here." 

They enter ; round upon the floor are strewn 

The ivory sceptre, and the glittering crown ; 

Unnumbered hopes there fluttered on the wing, 

There were the lays discarded lovers sing ; 

There Fame her trumpet blew, long, loud, and clear ; 

Worlds tremble as the deafening notes they hear ; 

There brooded riches o'er his lifeless heap ; 

There were the tears which misery's children weep; 

There were posthumous alms, and misspent time 

Lost in a jingling mass of foolish rhyme. 

There was the conscience of the miser ; there 

The tears of love, — the pity of the fair ; 

There, pointing, cried the sylph-like smiling boy, 

There's the content which fled you, Oleroy ! 

Regain it if you can ; then far away, 

And reach your world before the dawn of day. 




ON SEEING AT A CONCERT THE PUBLIC PER- 
FORMANCE OF A FEMALE DWARF. 

Helpless, unprotected, weary, 

Tossed upon the world's wide sea, 

Borne from those I love most dearly, 
Say — dost thou not feel for me ? 

Who that hath shrunk 'neath Nature's frown, 
Would court false fortune's fickle smile ? 

O, who would wander thus alone, 
Reckless alike of care or toil ? 

Who would, for fading pleasure, brave 
The sea of troubles, dark and deep ? 

For lo ! the gems which deck the wave 
Vanish, and " leave the wretch to weep."' 

'Twas not for fortune's smile of light. 
Which beams but to destroy forever ; 

'Twas not for pleasure's bubbles bright, 
Which dazzle still, deluding ever : 

Oft have I faltered when alone 

Before the crowd I sung my lay ; 
But ah, a father's feeble moan 

Rung in my ears, I dared not stay. 



PUBLIC PERFORMANCE OF A FEMALE DWARF. 125 

O, I have borne pride's scornful look, 

And burning taunts from slander's tongue ; 

Yet more of malice I could brook, 

E'en though my heart with grief was wrung. 

Adieu ! a long — a last adieu — 

Once more I launch upon life's sea ; 

But still shall memory turn to you. 
For, stranger, you have felt for me. 




ALONZO AND IMANEL. 

As he spoke, he beheld on the sea-beaten strand 

A form, 'twas so airy, so hght. 
He could almost have sworn by the faith of his land 
That an angel was wand'ring 'mid rocks and through 
sand, 

'Neath the moonbeam so fitfully bright. 

He paused, as the bittern screamed loud o'er his head : 

One moment he paused on the shore, 
To mark the wild wave as it dashed from its bed, 
Tossing high the white spray from its foam-spangled 
head. 

With a fitful and deafening roar. 

He caught the wild notes of a song, on the wind, 

Ere the tempest-god bore them away : 
And they told of a tortured and desperate mind, 
To despair's dark shadows forever resigned. 
Of a heart once hope-lighted and gay. 

The bright moon was hid in the breast of the storm, 

And darkness and terror drew round ; 
Yet still he could mark her light, fanciful form. 
As she roamed round the wild rocks, devoid of alarm, 

Though the fiend of the whirlwind frowned. 



ALONZO AND IMANEL. 127 

O tell me, he cried, what spirit so light, 

So beautiful e'en in despair. 
Is wand'ring alone 'mid the storm of the night, 
When to guide her no star in the heaven is bright. 

No gleam save the lightning's red glare ! 

'Tis young Imanel, answered his guide with a sigh, 

The rich, the beloved, and the gay. 
Who is doomed from her friends and her country to 

fly. 

For she loved, and she wedded Alonzo the spy, 
Who has left her and fled far away. 

Alonzo the spy ! and he darted away 

With the speed of a shooting star. 
Nor heeded the call of his guide to stay, 
But toward the poor lone one he bounded away ; 

She had fled to the sea-beach afar. 

One glance of the forked lightning's glare 
Played bright round the fair one's face. 
And it beamed on Alonzo, for he was there, 
And it beamed on his bride, on his Imanel dear, 
Clasped at length in his joyful embrace. 



TO MARGARET'S EYE. 

O ! I have seen the bhish of morn, 
And I have seen the evening sky ; 

But ah ! they faded when I gazed 

On the bright heaven of Margaret's eye. 

I've seen the Queen of evening ride 
Majestic 'mid the clouds on high ; 

But e'en Diana in her pride 

Was dim near Margaret's brilhant eye. 

I've seen the azure vault of heaven, 
I've seen the star-bespangled sky ; 

But O ! I would the whole have given 

For one sweet glance from Margaret's eye. 

I've seen the dew upon the rose ; 

It trembled 'neath the zephyr's sigh ; 
But O ! the tear which Nature shed 

Was dim near that in Margaret's eye. 



A SONG. 

Life is but a troubled ocean, 
Hope a meteor, love a flower 

Which blossoms in the morning beam. 
And withers with the evening hour. 

Ambition is a dizzy height. 

And glory but a lightning gleam ; 

Fame is a bubble, dazzling bright, 

Which fairest shines in fortune's beam. 

When clouds and darkness veil the skies, 
And sorrow's blast blows loud and chill, 

Friendship shall like a rainbow rise, 
And softly whisper — " Peace, be still." 






TWILIGHT. 

How sweet the hour when dayhght blends 
With the pensive shadows on evening's breast ! 

And dear to the heart is the pleasure it lends ; 
'Tis like the departure of saints to their rest. 

O, 'tis sweet, Saranac, on thy loved banks to stray, 
To watch the last day-beam dance light on thy 
wave, 

To mark the white skiff as it skims o'er the bay,* 
Or heedlessly bounds o'er the warrior's grave. 

O, 'tis sweet to a heart unentangled and light, 

When with hope's brilliant prospects the fancy is 
blest. 

To pause 'mid its day-dreams so witchingly bright. 
And mark the last sunbeams, while sinking to rest. 

* Cumberland Bay, the scene of a battle during the last war. 




THE WHITE MAID OF THE ROCK. 

Loud 'gainst the rocks the wild spray is dashing, 
Its snowy white foam o'er the waves rudely splash- 
in «■ ■ 
The woods echo round to the bittern's shrill scream, 
As he dips his black wing in the wave of the stream ; 
Now mournful and sad the low murmuring breeze 
Sighs lonely and dismal through hollow oak trees. 
The owl loudly hoots, while his lonely abode 
Serves to shelter the snake and the poisonous toad ; 
Lo ! the black thunder-cloud is spread over the skies, 
And the swift-winged lightning at intervals flies. 
The streamlet looks dark, and the spray wilder breaks ; 
And the alder-leaf dank with its silver drop, shakes ; 
This dell and these rocks, this lone alder and stream, 
With the dew-drops which dance in the moon's silver 

beam, 
Are sacred to beings ethereal and light. 
Who hold their dark orgies alone and at night. 
Wild, and more wild, dashed the waves of the stream, 
The White Maid of the Rock gave a shrill, piercing 

scream ; 
Down headlong she plunged 'neath the dark rolling 

wave, 
And, rising, thus chanted a dirge to the brave : — 
" The raven croaks loud from her nest in the rock. 
The night-owl's shrill hooting resounds from the oak ; 



132 THE WHITE MAID OF THE ROCK. 

Behold the retreat where brave Avenel is laid, 
Uncoffined, except by his own Scottish plaid ! 
Long since has my girdle diminished to naught, 
And the great house of Avenel low has been brought ; 
The star now burns dimly which once brightly shone, 
And proud Avenel's glory forever has flown. 
As I sailed and my white garments caught in the 

brake, 
'Neath the oak, whose huge branches extend o'er the 

lake, 
' Woe to thee ! woe to thee ! Maid of the Rock,' 
Cried the night-raven who builds in the oak ; 
' Woe to thee ! guardian spirit of Avenel ! 
Where are thy holly-bush, streamlet, and dell ? 
No longer thou sittest to watch and to weep. 
Near the abbey's lone walls, and its turrets so steep ! 
Woe to thee ! woe to thee ! Maid of the Rock,' 
Cried the night-raven who builds in the oak ! 
Then farewell, great Avenel, thy proud race is run ! 
The girdle has vanished — my task is now done." 
Then her long flowing tresses around her she drew. 
And her form 'neath the wave of the dark streamlet 

threw. 




HABAKKUK III. 6. 

When Cushan was mourning in solitude drear, 
When the curtains of Midian trembled with fear, 
On the wings of salvation thy chariot did fly : 
Thou didst stride the wide whirlwind and come from 
on high. 

Earth shook, and before thee the mountains did bow : 
The voice of the deep thundered loud from below ; 
Thy arrows glanced bright as they shot through the 

air, 
And far gleamed the light of thy glittering spear ; 
The bright orb of day paused in wonder on high. 
And the lamp of the night stood still in the sky. 




LOVE, JOY, AND PLEASURE. 



AN ALLEGORY. 



The night was calm, the sky serene, 

The sea a mirror displayed ; 
On its bosom the twinkling stars were seen, 
The moon-crested waves were dancing between. 

And smiling through evening's shade. 

On that placid sea Pleasure's bark was riding. 
Love and Joy were its guides through the deep ; 

And their hearts beat high, while on fortune con- 
fiding, 

They smiled at the forms that were gloomily striding 
O'er the brow of the wave-washed steep. 

Those forms were Malice, and Scorn, and Hate, 

And they flitted around so dark. 
That they seemed like the gloomy sisters of Fate, 
Intent on some dreary, some deadly debate. 

To ruin the beautiful bark. 

But the eye of Joy was raised on high. 

She gazed at the moon's pale lamp ; 
The tear of pleasure shone bright in her eye. 
And she saw not the clouds that were passing by, 

Death's messengers dark and damp. 



LOVE, JOY, AND PLEASURE. 135 

And Pleasure was gazing with childish glee 

At the beacon's trembling gleam, 
Or watching the shade of her wings in the sea, 
With their colors as varied and fickle as she, 

As fleeting as Folly's dream. 

And Love was tipping his feathery darts, 

And feeding his flaming torch ; 
He was tinging his wings with the blood of hearts ; 
He was chanting low numbers, and smiling by starts 

At the flowers round Hymen's porch. 

Meanwhile the clouds were gath'ring drear, 

They hung round the weeping moon, 
And still the mariners dreamed not of fear, 
Still in Joy's bright eye beamed the brilliant tear. 

Which sorrow would claim too soon. 

The voice of the tempest-god rolled around, 

The bark towards heaven was tossed ; 
Then, then the fond dreamers awoke at the sound, 
And Pleasure, the helmsman, in agony found 

That the light-house fire was lost. 

Loud and more loud the billows roar, 

The ocean no more is gay ; 
Love dreams of his pinions and arrows no more, 
Joy mourns the hour that she left the shore, 

And Pleasure's bright wings fade away. 



136 LOVE, JOY, AND PLEASURE. 

Then Malice sent forth a shadowy bark, 

Which, bounding o'er the wave, 
Came Hke a meteor's brilKant spark, 
A star of Hght mid the tempest dark, 

A beacon of hope from the grave. 

Joy onward rushed to the airy skiff 

Which near them gayly drew ; 
But ah! she sank to the arms of Grief, 
For the bark, which promised them sure reHef, 

Away Hke hghtning flew. 

Then the smile of Scorn and Malice gleamed 

Across the billow's foam, 
And long and loud fell Hatred screamed 
With fiend-like joy, as the lightning streamed 

Around their forms of gloom. 

On, on, they drifted before the gale ; 

Again the signal rose ; 
Joy and Pleasure the beacon hail ; 
Love's ashy cheek becomes less pale 

As clearer and brighter it glows. 

'Twas Hope who fired the beacon high, 

And she came with her anchor of rest; 
And Faith, who raised towards heaven her eye, 
Spoke peace to the storm of the troubled sky. 
And calm to the weary breast. 



LOVE, JOY, AND PLEASURE.- 



^37 



And Charity came with her robe of light, 

And she led the wanderers home ; 
She warned them and wept o'er the woes of the 

night, 
And she welcomed them in with a smile so bright, 

That Pleasure forgot to roam. 

And she led them to Religion's shrine, 

Where Hope was humbly kneeling, 
And there the tears of Joy did shine 
With a light more dazzling, more divine, — 

They were mingled with tears of feeling. 

There Love's wild wings shone calmly bright, 

As over the altar he waved them ; 
There Pleasure folded her pinions light, 
And fondly gazed with a sacred delight 

On the scroll which Charity gave them. 




O THAT THE EAGLE'S WING WERE MINE! 

O THAT the eagle's wing were mine ! 

I'd soar above the dreary earth ; 
I'd spread my wings, and rise to join 

The immortal fountain of my birth. 

For what is joy? how soon it fades, — 

The childish vision of an hour ! 
Though warm and brilliant are its shades, 

'Tis but a frail and fading flower. 

And what is hope .'' it is a light 
Which leads us on deluding ever, 

Till lost amid the shades of night 
We sink, and then it flies forever ! 

And what is love .-' it is a dream, 
A brilliant fable framed by youth ; 

A bubble dancing on life's stream, 
And sinking 'neath the eye of truth. 

And what are honor, glory, fame, 

But Death's dark watchwords to the grave ? 
The victim dies, and lo ! his name 

Is lost in life's swift rollins: wave. 



O THAT THE EAGLE'S JFEVG JVERE MINE! 139 

And what are all the joys of life, 

But vanity, and toil, and woe ? 
What but a bitter cup of grief, 

With dregs of sin and death below ? 

This world is but the first dark gate 

Unfolded to the waking soul ; 
But Death unerring, led by Fate, 

Shall heaven's bright portals backward roll. 

Then shall this unchained spirit fly 

On to the God who gave it life ; 
Rejoicing as it soars on high. 

Released from danger, doubt, and strife. 

There will it pour its anthems forth, 
Bending before its Maker's throne, — 

The great I Am, who gave it birth. 

The Almighty God, the dread Unknown. 




THE SMILE OF INNOCENCE. 

There is a smile of bitter scorn, 

Which curls the lip, which lights the eye ; 

There is a smile in beauty's morn, 
Just rising o'er the midnight sky. 

There is a smile of youthful joy, 

When Hope's bright star 's the transient guest ; 
There is a smile of placid age, 

Like sunset on the billow's breast. 

There is a smile, the maniac's smile, 

Which lights the void which reason leaves, 

And, like the sunshine through a cloud. 
Throws shadows o'er the song she weaves. 

There is a smile of love, of hope, 

Which shines a meteor through life's gloom ; 
And there's a smile. Religion's smile. 

Which lights the weary to the tomb. 

There is a smile, an angel's smile. 

That sainted souls behind them leave ; 

There is a smile that shines through toil, 
And warms the bosom though in grief; 



THE SMILE OF INNOCENCE. 141 

And there's a smile on Nature's face, 

When Evening spreads her shades around ; 

A pensive smile when twinkling stars 

Are glimmering through the vast profound. 

But there's a smile, 'tis sweeter still, 

'Tis one far dearer to my soul ; 
It is a smile which angels might 

Upon their brightest list enroll. 

It is the smile of innocence, 

Of sleeping infancy's light dream ; 
Like lightning on a summer's eve, 

It sheds a soft and pensive gleam. 

It dances round the dimpled cheek, 

And tells of happiness within ; 
It smiles what it can never speak, — 

A human heart devoid of sin. 




TO MY MOTHER. 

O THOU whose care sustained my infant years, 
And taught my prattHng Hp eacli note of love ; 

Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears, 
And round my brow hope's brightest garland wove : 

To thee my lay is due, the simple song 

Which Nature gave me at life's opening day ; 

To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong. 
Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay. 

O say, amid this wilderness of life. 

What bosom would have throbbed like thine for me .'' 
Who would have smiled responsive .-' who in grief 

Would e'er have felt, and, feeling, grieved like thee .'' 

Who would have guarded, with a falcon eye. 
Each trembling footstep or each sport of fear ? 

Who would have marked my bosom bounding high. 
And clasped me to her heart, with love's bright tear .'' 

Who would have hung around my sleepless couch. 
And fanned, with anxious hand, my burning brow ? 

Who would have fondly pressed my fevered lip, 
In all the agony of love and woe .'' 



TO MY MOTHER. 143 

None but a mother, — none but one like thee, 
Whose bloom has faded in the midnight watch ; 

Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery, 
Whose form has felt disease's mildew touch. 

Yes, thou hast lighted me to health and life. 
By the bright lustre of thy youthful bloom ; 

Yes, thou hast wept so oft o'er every grief, 

That woe hath traced thy brow with marks of 
gloom. 

O then, to thee this rude and simple song, 

Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee, 

To thee, my mother, shall this lay belong. 
Whose life is spent in toil and care for me. 




SABRINA. 

A VOLCANIC ISLAND, WHICH APPEARED AND DISAPPEARED AMONG 
THE AZORES, IN I7II. 

Isle of the ocean, say, whence comest thou ? 

The smoke thy dark throne, and the blaze round thy 

brow ; 
The voice of the earthquake proclaims thee abroad. 
And the deep, at thy coming, rolls darkly and loud. 

From the breast of the ocean, the bed of the wave. 
Thou hast burst into being, hast sprung from the 

grave ; 
A stranger, wild, gloomy, yet terribly bright, 
Thou art clothed with the darkness, yet crowned with 

the light. 

Thou comest in flames, thou hast risen in fire ; 
The wave is thy pillow, the tempest thy choir ; 
They will lull thee to sleep on the ocean's broad breast, 
A slumbering volcano, an earthquake at rest. 

Thou hast looked on the isle — thou hast looked on 

the wave — 
Then hie thee again to thy deep, watery grave ; 
Go, quench thee in ocean, thou dark, nameless thing, 
Thou spark from the fallen ones wide flaming wing. 



THE PROPHECY. 



TO A LADY. 



Let me gaze awhile on that marble brow, 

On that full, dark eye, on that cheek's warm glow ; 

Let me gaze for a moment, that, ere I die, 

I may read thee, maiden, a prophecy. 

That brow may beam in glory awhile ; 

That cheek may bloom, and that lip may smile ; 

That full dark eye may brightly beam 

In life's gay morn, in hope's young dream ; 

But clouds shall darken that brow of snow, 

And sorrow blight thy bosom's glow. 

I know by that spirit so haughty and high, 

I know by that brightly flashing eye, 

That, maiden, there's that within thy breast. 

Which hath marked thee out for a soul unblest : 

The strife of love with pride shall wring 

Thy youthful bosom's tenderest string ; 

And the cup of sorrow, mingled for thee, 

Shall be drained to the dregs in agony. 

Yes, maiden, yes, I read in thine eye 

A dark and a doubtful prophecy. 

Thou shalt love, and that love shall be thy curse : 

Thou wilt need no heavier, thou shalt feel no worse. 

I see the cloud and the tempest near ; 

The voice of the troubled tide I hear ; 

10 



146 THE PROPHECY. 

The torrent of sorrow, the sea of grief, 
The rushing waves of a wretched Hfe. 
Thy bosom's bark on the surge I see. 
And, maiden, thy loved one is there with thee. 
Not a star in the heavens, not a Hght on the wave ! 
Maiden, I've gazed on thine early grave. 
When I am cold, and the hand of Death 
Hath crowned my brow with an icy wreath, . 
When the dew hangs damp on this motionless lip, 
When this eye is closed in its long last sleep. 
Then, maiden, pause, when thy heart beats high, 
And think on my last sad prophecy. 




PROPHECY 11. 



TO ANOTHER LADY. 



I HAVE told a maiden of hours of grief, 

Of a bleeding heart, of a joyless life ; 

I have read her a tale of future woe ; 

I have marked her a pathway of sorrow below ; 

I have read on the page of her blooming cheek 

A darker doom than my tongue dare speak. 

Now, maiden, for thee, I will turn mine eye 

To a brighter path through futurity. 

The clouds shall pass from thy brow away, 

And bright be the closing of life's long day ; 

The storms shall murmur in silence to sleep. 

And angels around thee their watches shall keep. 

Thou shalt live in the sunbeams of love and delight. 

And thy life shall flow on till it fades into night ; 

And the twilight of age shall come quietly on ; 

Thou wilt feel, yet regret not, that daylight hath 

flown : 
For the shadows of evening shall melt o'er thy soul. 
And the soft dreams of heaven around thee shall roll, 
Till sinking in sweet, dreamless slumber to rest, 
In the arms of thy loved one, still blessing and blest. 
Thy soul shall glide on to its harbor in. heaven. 
Every tear wiped away, every error forgiven. 



PROPHECY HI. 



TO ANOTHER LADY. 



Wilt thou rashly unveil the dark volume of fate ? 

It is open before thee : repentance is late, — 

Too late ! for, behold o'er the dark page of woe 

Move the days of thy grief, yet unnumbered below. 

There is one whose sad destiny mingles with thine : . 

He was formed to be happy — he dared to repine ; 

And jealousy mixed in his bright cup of bliss. 

And the page of his fate grew still darker than this. 

He gazed on thee, maiden, he met thee, and passed ; 

But better for thee had the Siroc's fell blast 

Swept by thee, and wasted and faded thee there, 

So youthful, so happy, so thoughtless, so fair. 

And mark ye his broad brow ? 'tis noble ; 'tis high ; 

And mark ye the flash of his dark, eagle-eye ? 

When the wide wheels of time have encircled the 

world. 
When the banners of night in the sky are unfurled, 
Then, maiden, remember the tale I have told, 
For further I may not, I dare not unfold. 
The rose on yon dark page is sear and decayed. 
And thus, e'en in youth, shall thy fondest hopes fade ; 
Tis an emblem of thee, brokeUj withered, and pale — 
Nay, start not, and blanch not, though dark be the 

tale: 



PROPHECY III. 



149 



An hour-glass half spent, and a tear-bedewed token, 
A heart withered, wasted, and bleeding and broken, 
All these are the emblems of sorrow to be ; 
I will veil the page, maiden, in pity to thee. 




FEATS OF DEATH. 

I HAVE passed o'er the earth in the darkness of night, 
I have walked the wild winds in the morning's broad 

light ; 
I have paused o'er the bower where the infant lay 

sleeping, 
And I've left the fond mother in sorrow and weeping. 

My pinion was spread, and the cold dew of night, 
Which withers and moulders the flower in its light, 
Fell silently o'er the warm cheek in its glow, 
And I left it there blighted, and wasted, and low ; 
I culled the fair bud, as it danced in its mirth, 
And I left it to moulder and fade on the earth. 

I paused o'er the valley ; the glad sounds of joy 
Rose soft through the mist, and ascended on high ; 
The fairest were there, and I paused in my flight, 
And the deep cry of wailing broke wildly that night. 

I stay not to gather the lone one to earth, 
I spare not the young in their gay dance of mirth. 
But I sweep them all on to their home in the grave ; 
I stop not to pity — I stay not to save. 

I paused in my pathway, for beauty was there : 
It was beauty too death-like, too cold, and too fair! 



FEATS OF DEATH. 15 1 

The deep purple fountain seemed melting away, 
And the faint pulse of life scarce remembered to play ; 
She had thought on the tomb, she was waiting for me : 
I gazed, I passed on, and her spirit was free. 

The clear stream rolled gladly, and bounded along, 
With ripple, and murmur, and sparkle, and song ; 
The minstrel was tuning his wild harp to love. 
And sweet and half sad were the numbers he wove. 
I passed, and the harp of the bard was unstrung ; 
O'er the stream which rolled deeply, 'twas recklessly 

hung ; 
The minstrel was not ! and I passed on alone. 
O'er the newly raised turf and the rudely carved 

stone. 




AUCTION EXTRAORDINARY. 

I DREAMED a dream in the midst of my slumbers, 

And as fast as I dreamed it, it came into numbers ; 

My thoughts ran along in such beautiful metre, 

I'm sure I ne'er saw any poetry sweeter. 

It seemed that a law had been recently made 

That a tax on old bachelors' pates should be laid ; 

And in order to make them all willing to marry, 

The tax was as large as a man could well carry. 

The bachelors grumbled, and said 'twas no use ; 

'Twas horrid injustice and horrid abuse ; 

And declared that, to save their own hearts'-blood 

from spilling, 
Of such a vile tax they would not pay a shilling. 
But the rulers determined them still to pursue. 
So they set the old bachelors up at vendue. 
A crier was sent through the town to and fro, 
To rattle his bell, and his trumpet to blow. 
And to call out to all he might meet in his way, 
"Ho! forty old bachelors sold here to-day!" 
And presently all the old maids in the town. 
Each in her very best bonnet and gown, 
From thirty to sixty, fair, plain, red, and pale, 
Of every description, all flocked to the sale : 
The auctioneer then in his labor began. 
And called out aloud, as he held up a man, 



A UCTION EXTRA ORDINAR Y. 



153 



"How much for a bachelor? who wants to buy?" 

In a twink,* every maiden responded, "I, — I;" 

In short, at a highly extravagant price, 

The bachelors all were sold oft" in a trice ; 

And forty old maidens, some younger, some older. 

Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder. 

* " That in a twink she won me to her love." — Shakespeare. — [Ed. J 




THE "GUARDIAN ANGEL." 

TO MISS E. C. — COMPOSED ON A BLANK LEAF OF HER " PALEY," 
DURING RECITATION- 

I'm thy guardian angel, sweet maid, and I rest 
In mine own chosen temple, thy innocent breast ; 
At midnight I steal from my sacred retreat, 
When the chords of thy heart in soft unison beat. 

When thy bright eye is closed, when thy dark tresses 

flow 
In beautiful wreaths o'er thy pillow of snow, 

then I watch o'er thee, all pure as thou art. 
And listen to music which steals from thy heart. 

Thy smile is the sunshine which gladdens my soul. 
My tempest the clouds which around thee may roll ; 

1 feast my light form on thy rapture-breathed sighs, 
And drink at the fount of those beautiful eyes. 

The thoughts of thy heart are recorded by me ; 
There are some which, half breathed, half acknowl- 
edged by thee. 
Steal sweetly and silently o'er thy pure breast, 
Just ruffling its calmness, then murmuring to rest. 

Like a breeze o'er the lake, when it breathlessly lies, 
With its own mimic mountains, and star-spangled 
skies. 



THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 155 

I stretch my light pinions around thee when sleeping 
To guard thee from spirits of sorrow and weeping. 

I breathe o'er thy slumbers sweet dreams of delight, 
Till you wake but to sigh for the visions of night. 
Then remember, wherever your pathway may lie. 
Be it clouded with sorrow, or brilliant with joy. 
My spirit shall watch thee, wherever thou art, 
My incense shall rise from the throne of thy heart. 
Farewell ! for the shadows of evening are fled. 
And the young rays of morning are wreathed round 
my head. 




TO THE VERMONT CADETS. 

Pass on ! for the bright torch of glory is beaming ; 

Go, wreathe round your brows the green laurels 
of fame ; 
Around you a halo is brilliantly streaming, 

And history lingers to write down each name. 

Yes ! ye are the pillars of liberty's throne ; 

When around you the banner of glory shall wave, 
America proudly shall claim you her own, 

And freedom and honor shall pause o'er each grave ! 

A watch-fire of glory, a beacon of light, 
Shall guide you to honor, shall point you to fame : 

The heart that shrinks back, be it buried in night, 
And withered with dim tears of sorrow and shame ! 

Though death should await you, 'twere glorious to die 
With the glow of pure honor still warm on the brow ; 
With a light sparkling brightly around the dim eye, 
Like the smile of a spirit still ling'ring below. 

Pass on, and when War in his strength shall arise. 
Rush on to the conflict, and conquer or die ; 

Let the clash of your arms proudly roll to the skies : 
Be blest if victorious — and cursed, if you fly ! 



TO MY FRIEND AND PATRON. 



ESQ. 



And can my simple harp be strung 
To higher theme, to nobler end, 

Than that of gratitude to thee. 

To thee, my father and my friend .'' 

I may not, cannot, will not say 

All that a grateful heart would breathe ; 
But I may frame a simple lay, 

Nor Slander blight the blushing wreath. 

Yes, I will touch the string to thee. 
Nor fear its wildness will offend ; 

For well I know that thou wilt be 

What thou hast ever been, — a friend. 

There are, whose cold and idle gaze 

Would freeze the current where it flows ; 

But Gratitude shall guard the fount. 
And Faith shall light it as it flows. 

Then tell me, may I dare to twine, 
While o'er my simple harp I bend, 

This little offering for thee. 

For thee, my father and my friend ? 



MORNING. 

I COME in the breath of the wakened breeze ; 
I kiss the flowers, and I bend the trees ; 
And I shake the dew which hath fallen by night, 
From its throne on the lily's pure bosom of white. 
Awake thee, when bright from my couch in the sky 
I beam o'er the mountains, and come from on high ; 
When my gay purple banners are waving afar ; 
When my herald, gray dawn, hath extinguished each 

star ; 
When I smile on the woodlands, and bend o'er the 

lake. 
Then awake thee, O maiden, I bid thee awake ! 
Thou mayst slumber when all the wide arches of 

heaven 
Glitter bright with the beautiful fire of even ; 
When the moon walks in glory, and looks from on 

high, 
O'er the clouds floating far through the clear azure 

sky. 
Drifting on like the beautiful vessels of heaven. 
To their far-away harbor all silently driven, 
Bearing on, in their bosoms, the children of light. 
Who have fled from this dark world of sorrow and 

night ; 
When the lake lies in calmness and darkness, save 

where 
The bright ripple curls, 'neath the smile of a star ; 



MORNING. 



159 



When all is in silence and solitude here, 

Then sleep, maiden, sleep ! without sorrow or fear ! 

But when I steal silently over the lake, 

Awake thee then, maiden, awake ! O, awake ! 




TO A FRIEND, 

WHOM I HAD NOT SEEN SINCE MY CHILD HOOD. 

And thou hast marked, in childhood's hour, 
The fearless boundings of my breast, 

When, fresh as Summer's opening flower, 
I freely frolicked, and was blessed. 

O ! say, was not this eye more bright ? 

Were not these lips more wont to smile ? 
Methinks that then my heart was light. 

And I a fearless, joyous child. 

And thou didst mark me gay and wild, 
My careless, reckless laugh of mirth ; 

The simple pleasure of a child, 
The holiday of man on earth. 

Then thou hast seen me in that hour 
When every nerve of life was new. 

When pleasures fanned youth's infant flower, 
And Hope her witcheries round it threw. 

That hour is fading, — it has fled, 
And I am left in darkness now ; 

A wanderer towards a lowly bed, 
The grave, that home of all below. 



MODESTY. 

There is a sweet, though humble flower, 
Which grows in nature's wildest bed ; 

It blossoms in the lonely bower, 

But withers 'neath the gazer's tread. 

'Tis reared alone, far, far away 

From the wild noxious weeds of death ; 
Around its brow the sunbeams play. 

The evening dew-drop is its wreath. 

'Tis Modesty ; 'tis Nature's child ; 

The loveliest, sweetest, meekest flower 
That ever blossomed in the wild. 

Or trembled 'neath the evening shower. 

'Tis Modesty ; so pure, so fair, 

That woman's witcheries lovelier grow, 

When that sweet flower is blooming there, 
The brightest beauty of her brow. 



THE YELLOW FEVER. 

The sky is pure, the clouds are light, 

The moonbeams glitter cold and bright ; 

O'er the wide landscape breathes no sigh ; 

The sea reflects the star-gemmed sky, 

And every beam of heaven's broad brow 

Glows brightly on the world below. 

But ah ! the wing of death is spread ; 

I hear the midnight murderers' tread ; 

I hear the Plague that walks at night, 

I mark its pestilential blight ; 

I feel its hot and withering breath. 

It is the messenger of death ! 

And can a scene so pure and fair 

Slumber beneath a baneful air ? 

And can the stealing form of death 

Here wither with its blighting breath ? 

Yes ; and the slumberer feels its power 

At midnight's dark and silent hour. 

He feels the wild-fire through his brain ; 

He wakes ; his frame is racked with pain ; 

His eye half closed ; his lip is dark ; 

The sword of death hath done his work ! 

That sallow cheek, that fevered lip. 

That eye which burns but cannot sleep. 

That black parched tongue, that raging brain, 

All 'mark the monarch's baleful reign ! 



THE YELLOW FEVER. 

O ! for one pure, one balmy breath, 
To cool the sufferer's brow in death ; 
O ! for one wandering breeze of heaven ; 
O that one moment's rest were given ! 
'Tis past ; and hushed the victim's prayer ; 
The spirit xvas — but is not there! 



163 




K? 



RUINS OF PALMYRA. 

Palmyra, where art thou, all dreary and lone ? 

The breath of thy fame, like the night-wind, hath 

flown : 
O'er thy temples, thy minarets, towers, and halls 
The dark veil of oblivion silently falls. 

The sands of the desert sweep by thee in pride, 
They curl round thy brow, like the foam of the tide, 
And soon, like the mountain stream's wild-rolling 

wave, 
Will rush o'er, and wrap thee at once in thy grave. 

O, where are the footsteps which once gayly flew 
O'er pavements where now weep the foxglove and 

yew .'' 
O, where are the voices which once gayly sung,- 
While the lofty-browed domes with melody rung ? 

They are silent ; and naught breaks the chaos of 

death ; 
Not a being now treads o'er the ivy's dull wreath. 
Save the raging hyena, whose terrible cry 
Echoes loud through the. halls and the palaces high. 



KUINS OF PALMYRA. 1 65 

Thou art fallen, Palmyra ! and never to rise, 

Thou " queen of the east, thou bright child of the 

skies ! " 
Thou art lonely ; the desert around thee is wide ; 
Then haste to its arms, nor remember thy pride. 

Thou art forgotten, Palmyra ! return thee to earth ; 
And great be thy fall, as was stately thy birth ; 
With grandeur then bow 'neath the pinion of time. 
And sink, not in splendor, but sadly sublime. 




THE WIDE WORLD IS DREAR. 

O SAY not the wide world is lonely and dreary ! 

O say not that life is a wilderness waste ! 
There's ever some comfort in store for the weary, 

And there's ever some hope for the sorrowful breast. 

There are often sweet dreams which will steal o'er 
the soul, 
Beguiling the mourner to smile through a tear, 
That, when waking, the dew-drops of mem'ry may 
fall. 
And blot out, forever, " the wide world is drear." 

There is hope for the lost, for the lone one's relief, 
Which will beam o'er his pathway of danger and 
fear ; 
There is pleasure's wild throb, and the calm "joy of 
grief," 
O then say not the wide world is lonely and drear! 

There are fears that are anxious, yet sweet to the 
breast, 

Some feelings, which language ne'er told to the ear, 
Which return to the heart, and there lingering rest, 

Soft whispering, this world is not lonely and drear. 



THE WIDE WORLD IS DREAR. 167 

'Tis true that the dreams of the evening will fade, 

When reason's broad sunbeam shines calmly and 
clear ; 
Still fancy, sweet fancy, will smile o'er the shade. 
And say that the world is not lonely and drear. 

O then mourn not that life is a wilderness waste ! 

That each hope is illusive, each prospect is drear, 
But remember that man, undeserving, is blest, 

And rewarded with smiles for the fall of a tear. 




FAREWELL TO MISS E. B. 

Farewell, and whenever calm solitude's hour 
Shall silently spread its broad wings o'er your bower, 
O ! then gaze on yon planet, yon watch-fire divine, 
And believe that my soul is there mingling with 
thine. 

When the dark brow of evening is beaming with 

stars, 
And yon crest of light clouds is the turban she wears, 
When she walks forth in grandeur, the queen of the 

night, 
O ! then think that my spirit looks on with delight. 

O'er the ocean of life our frail vessels are bounding. 
And danger and death our dark pathway surrounding ; 
Destruction's bright meteors are dancing before. 
And behind us the winds of adversity roar. 

O ! then come, let us light friendship's lamp on the 

wave : 
If we're lost, it will shed its pure light o'er the grave, 
Or 'twill guide to the haven of Heaven at last. 
And beam on when the voice of the trumpet hath 

passed. 



DEATH. 

The destroyer cometh ; his footstep is light, 
He marketh the threshold of sorrow at night ; 
He steals like a thief o'er the fond one's repose, 
And chills the warm tide from the heart as it flows. 

His throne is the tomb, and a pestilent breath 
Walks forth on the night-wind, the herald of death ; 
His couch is the bier, and the dark weeds of woe 
Are the curtains which shroud joy's deadliest foe. 




A VIEW OF DEATH. 

When bending o'er the brink of life, 

My trembling soul shall stand, 
Waiting to pass death's awful flood, 

Great God ! at thy command ; 

When weeping friends surround my bed, 

To close my sightless eyes ; 
When shattered by the weight of years 

This broken body lies ; 

When every long-loved scene of life 

Stands ready to depart ; 
When the last sigh which shakes this frame, 

Shall rend this bursting heart, — 

O Thou great source of joy supreme, 

Whose arm alone can save. 
Dispel the darkness that surrounds 

The entrance to the "grave. 

Lay thy supporting, gentle hand 

Beneath my sinking head, 
And with a ray of love divine 

Illume my dying-bed. 



A VIEW OF DEATH. 



171 



Leaning on thy dear, faithful breast, 
I would resign my breath, 

And in thy loved embraces lose 
The bitterness of death. 




ROB ROY'S REPLY TO FRANCIS OSBALDISTONE. 

The heather I trod while breathing on earth, 

Must bloom o'er my grave in the land of my birth ; 

My warm heart would shrink like the fern in the 

frost, 
If the tops of my hills to my dim eyes were lost. 




ON THE 
DEATH OF THE BEAUTIFUL MRS. *****. 

I SAW her when Hfe's tide was high, . 

When youth was hov'ring o'er her brow, 
When joy was dancing in her eye, 

And her cheek bhished hope's crimson glow. 

I saw her 'mid a fairy throng 

She seemed the gayest of the gay ; 

I saw her hghtly glide along 

'Neath beauty's smile and pleasure's lay. 

I saw her in her bridal robe ; 

The blush of joy was mounting high ; 
I marked her bosom's heaving throb, 

I marked her dark and downcast eye. 

I saw her when a mother's love 

Asked at her hand a mother's care ; 

She looked an angel from above, 
Hovering round a cherub fair. 

I saw her not till, cold and pale, 
She slumbered on Death's icy arm ; 

The rose had faded on her cheek. 
Her lip had lost its power to charm. 



174 DEATH OF THE BEAUTIFUL MRS. ***** 

That eye was dim which brightly shone ; 

That brow was cold ; that heart was still ; 
The witcheries of that form had flown ; 

The lifeless clay had ceased to feel. 

I saw her wedded to the grave ; 

Her bridal robes were weeds of death ; 
And o'er her pale, cold brow was hung 
The damp sepulchral icy wreath. 




TO MY DEAR MOTHER IN SICKNESS. 

Hang not thy harp upon the willow ; 

Mourn not a brighter, happier day : 
But touch the chord, and life's wild billow 

Will, shrinking, foam its shame away. 

Then strike the chord and raise the strain 
Which brightens that dark clouded brow ; 

O ! beam one sunshine smile again, 
And I'll forgive thy sadness now. 

Though darkness, gloom, and doubt surround thee, 
Thy bark, though frail, shall safely ride ; 

The storm and whirlwind may rage round thee, 
But thou wilt all their wrath abide. 

Hang not thy harp upon the willow 
Which weeps o'er every passing wave ; 

Though life is but a restless pillow, 
There's calm and peace beyond the grave. 




KINUAR BURIAL SERVICE. 
VERSIFIED. 

We commend our brother to thee, O earth ! 

To thee he returns, from thee was his birth ! 

Of thee was he formed, he was nourished by thee ; 

Take the body, O earth ! the spirit is free. 

O air ! he once breathed thee, through thee he 

survived, 
And in thee and with thee his pure spirit Hved'; 
That spirit hath fled, and we yield him to thee ; 
His ashes be spread, Hke liis soul, far and free. 

O fire ! we commit his dear reh'cs to thee, 
Thou emblem of purity, spotless and free ; 
May his soul, like thy flames, bright and burning 

arise 
To its mansion of bliss, in the star-spangled skies. 

O water ! receive him ; without thy kind aid 

He had parched 'neath the sunbeams or mourned 

in the shade ; 
Then take of his body the share which is thine. 
For the spirit hath fled from its mouldering shrine. 



THE GRAVE. 

There is a spot so still and dreary, 
It is a pillow to the weary ; 
It is so solemn and so lone, 
That grief forgets to heave a groan. 

There life's storms can enter never ; 
There 'tis dark and lonely ever ; 
The mourner there shall seek repose, 
And there the wanderer's journey close. 




THE ARMY OF ISRAEL AT THE FOOT OF 
MOUNT SINAI. 

Their spears- glittered bright in the beams of the 

sun ; 
Their banners waved far, and their high hehiiets 

shone ; 
And their dark pkimes were tossed on the breast of 

the breeze, 
But the war-trumpet shmibered the slumber of peace. 

He came in his glory, He came in his might, 
His chariot the cloud, and his sceptre the light ; 
The sound of his coming was heard from afar, 
Like the roar of a nation when rushing to war. 

'Twas the great God of Lsrael, riding on high, 
Whose footstool is earth, and whose throne is the 

sky ; 
He stood in his glory, unseen and alone. 
And with letters of fire traced the tablets of stone. 

The eagle may soar to the sun in his might. 
And the eye of the warrior flash fierce in the fight ; 
But say, who may look upon God the Most High ? 
O Israel ! turn back from his glory, or die. 



A/?MV OF ISRAEL AT THE FOOT OF MOUNT SINAI. 179 

The sun in its splendor, the fire in its might, 

Which devours and withers, and wastes from the 

sight, 
Is dim to the glory which beams from his eye ; 
Then, Israel, turn back — O ! return, or ye die.. 




A>-^ 



THE GARDEN OF GETHSEMANE. 

Gethsemane ! there's holy blood 
Upon thy green and waving brow ; 

Gethsemane ! a God hath stood, 

And o'er thy branches bended low ! 

There drops of agony have hung 
Mingled with blood upon his brow ; 

For sin his bosom there was wrung, 
And there it bled for human woe. 

There, in the darkest hour of night, 
Alone He watched, alone He prayed ; 

Didst thou not tremble at the sight ? 
A God reviled ! a God betrayed ! 

Gethsemane ! so dark a scene 

Ne'er blotted the wide book of time ! 

Oblivion's veil can never screen 
So dark a deed, so black a crime ! 



THE TEMPEST GOD. 

Hark ! 'tis the wheels of his wide-rolling car ; 
They traverse the heavens and come from afar ; 
Sublime and majestic the dark cloud he rides, 
The wing of the whirlwind he fearlessly strides, 
The glance of his eye is the lightning's broad flame, 
And the caverns reecho his terrible name. 

In the folds of his pinions the wild whirlwinds sleep ; 
At his bidding they rush o'er the foam of the deep ; 
He speaks, and in whispers they murmur to rest, 
And calmly they sink on the folds of his breast ; 
His seat is the mountain-top's loftiest height ; 
He reigns there in darkness, the king of the night. 




TO A DEPARTING FRIEND. 

Farewell, and may some angel guide, 
Some viewless spirit hover o'er thee ; 

Who, let or weal or woe betide, 

Will still unchanging move before thee. 

A hallowed light shall burn at night, 
When sorrow's wave rolls drearily. 

And o'er thy way a cloud by day 
Shall cast its shadow cheerily. 

Thy bark of pleasure o'er life's smooth sea 

Shall gallantly glide along ; 
Prayers and blessings thy breezes shall be. 

And hope be thy parting song. 

Go then ; I have given the spirits charge 
To watch o'er thee now and forever ; 

To smooth life's waters, and guide thy barge 
Where tempest shall toss it never. 



MARITORNE; OR, THE PIRATE OF MEXICO. 

On Barritaria's brow the watch-fires glow, 

Their beacons beaming on the Gulf below, 

As if to dare some death-clevoted hand 

To quench in blood the boldly blazing brand ; 

Some Orlean herald armed with threat'ning high 

To daunt the Pirate Chieftain's haughty eye, 

To bid him bend to tame and vulgar law, 

And bow to painted things with trembling awe. 

Such herald well may come, but woe betide 

The self-devoted messenger of pride ! 

Such herald well may come, but far and near 

The name of Maritorne is joined with fear ; 

His vessels proudly ride the Gulf at will. 

Whilst he is Chief of Barritaria's Isle. 

The iron hand of power is raised in vain. 

Whilst Maritorne is master of the main. 

'Tis his to sacrifice, 'tis his to spare : 

He moves in silence, and is everywhere. 

His victims must with pompous boldness bleed, 

But if he pities, who may tell the deed ? 

'Tis done in secret, that no eye may mark 

One thought more gentle, or one act less dark. 

And he, the Governor of yon fair land. 

Whose tongue speaks freedom, but whose guilty hand 



t84 MARITORNE; OR, THE PIRATE OF MEXICO. 

Grasps the half-loosened manacles again, 

And adds, unseen, fresh links to slavery's chain ; 

Hated full deeply, dreaded and abhorred. 

The Pirate Chief, the haughty island lord. 

And cause enough, deep hidden in his breast, 

Had ]ic, the moody leader of the West, 

To hate that fearful man, who stood alone 

Feared, dreaded, and detested, though unknown. 

That cause was smothered or burst forth to light, 

Wreathed in the incense of a patriot's right. 

To drive the bold intruder from the shore. 

Where war and bloodshed must appear no more ; 

But deep within his heart the crater glowed 

From whence this gilded stream of lava flowed ; 

'Twas wounded pride, which, writhing inly, bled. 

And called for vengeance on the offender's head ; 

For Maritorne, with bold, unbending brow. 

Had scorned his power — that were enough ; but lo ! 

There on the very threshold of his home. 

There had the traitor Pirate dared to come. 

And thence had borne his own, his only child, 

Mate all unfit for Maritorne the wild ; 

And when the maiden cursed him in her breast, 

Those curses came not o'er him, — he was blest: 

For but to gaze upon her, and to feel 

That she whom he adored was near him still. 

Was bliss ! was heaven itself ! and he whose eye 

Bent not to aught of dull mortality, 

Shrunk with a tremulous delight whene'er 

The voice of Laura rose upon his ear ; 

That voice had power to quell the fiend within, 

Whose touch had turned his very soul to sin. 



MARITORNE ; OR, THE PIRATE OF MEXICO. 185 

That fiend was vengeance ; e'en his virtues bowed 

Before the altar which to vengeance glowed. 

His virtues ! yes ; for even fiends may boast 

A shadow of the glory they have lost. 

But O ! like them, his crimes were dark and deep, 

For vengeance was awake, — can vengeance sleep; 

Yes ; sleep, as tigers sleep, with half-shut eye. 

Crouching to spring upon the passer-by, 

With parched tongue cleaving to his blackened cell, 

Stift^'ning with thirst, and jaws which hunger fell 

Hath sharply whetted, quivering to devour 

The reckless wretch abandoned to his power. 

Yes : thus may vengeance sleep in breast like his, 

Where thoughts of wild revenge are thoughts of bliss. 

Thus may it sleep, like Etna's burning breast, 

To burst in thunders when 'tis dreaded least ; 

For his had been the joyless, thankless part 

Of one who warmed a viper at his heart. 

And clasped the venomed reptile to his breast 

Till wounded by the ingrate he caressed. 

Such had been Maritorne's accursed fate. 

Ere he became the hardened child of hate. 

At first, his breast was torn with anguish wild ; 

He cursed himself, then bitterly reviled 

The world as hollow-hearted, false, unkind ; 

He cursed himself, and doubly cursed mankind ; 

And then his heart grew callous, and like steel 

Grasped in his hand, had equal power to feel. 

'Twas like yon mountain snow-crest, chill though 

bright. 
Cold to the touch, but dazzling to the sight. 



l86 MAKITORNE; OR, THE PIRATE OF MEXICO. 

Till when the hour of darkness gathers, then 

The sunbeam fades, the ice grows dim again. 

He had a friend, one on whom fancy's eye 

Had deeply, rashly stamped fidelity : 

Traitor had better seemed — worm — viper — aught 

The vilest, veriest wretch e'er named in thought ; 

For he was sin's own son, and all that e'er 

Angels above may hate or mortals fear. 

There was a fascination in his eye 

Which those who felt, might seek in vain to fly. 

There was a blasting glance of mockery there ; 

There was a calm, contemptuous, biting sneer 

Forever on his lip, which made men fear, 

And, fearing, shun him, as a bird will shun 

A gilded bait, though glittering in the sun ; 

But still the mask of friendship he could wear ; 

The smile, the warm professions all were there ; 

Let him who trusts to these alone, beware ! 

A lurking devil may be crouching there. 

Shame on mankind that they will stoop to use 

Wiles which the imps of darkness would refuse. 

Henceforth let friendship drop her robes of light. 

And following desolation's blastinof fliorht 



There paced the Pirate Chief with giant stride, 

Deep chorus keeping to the Mexic tide ; 

His sable plumes were hovering o'er his brow, 

As if to hide the depth of thought below. 

He paused — 'twas but the dashing of the spray ; 

Again ! 'twas but the night-watch on his way. 



MARJTORNE; OR. THE PIRATE OF MEXICO. iS/ 

He only muttered, gnashed his teeth, and smiled ; 

Fit mirth were that, so ghastly and so wild, 

To grace a Pirate Chieftain's scornful lip ; 

'Twas like St. Helmo's night-fire o'er the deep. 

The beacon blaze is burning on the shore, 

But burns it not more dimly than before ? 

Perchance the drowsy sentinel is sleeping, 

His weary vigils negligently keeping. 

So thought the Chief, but still his wary eye 

Was fixed intently between earth and sky, 

As if its quick, keen glance would light the flame, 

And blast the sleeper with remorse and shame. 

He starts ; suspicion flashes on his brain — 

He grasps his dagger — by St. Mark — again! 

His bugle brightly glittered on his breast ; 

His lip the gilded bauble gently pressed ; 

One breath, one sigh, and rock and hill and sea 

Will echo back the warlike minstrelsy. 

The figure which had slowly passed between 

Himself and yonder blaze, sank where 'twas seen, 

As though the earth had gaped with sudden yawn, 

And drank both fire and form in silence down ; 

The beacon was extinguished, rock and tree 

And beetling cliff, and wildly foaming sea. 

Were hid in darkness, for the deep red light 

Which faintly sketched them on the brow of night, 

Was dim as was the moon's pale tremulous glow, 

For tempest-clouds were rallying round her brow ; 



1 88 MARITORNE; OR, THE PIRATE OF MEXICO. 

The sound of a footstep is on the shore, 

It dies away in the surge's roar ; 

It is heard again as the angry spray 

Rolls back and foams its shame away ; 

And shrill and clear was the call of alarm, — 

'Twas like the breaking of spell or charm ; 

It screamed o'er the dark wave, it rose to the hill. 

And the answering echoes reechoed it still. 

A rushing sound as of coming waves, 

A glittering band as if burst from their graves, 

Are the answers which wake at the bidding clear 

Of him, the Lord of the Isle of Fear. 

But scarce had the summons in silence died, 

When the foot which had waked the tumult wide, 

Was pressing the sand where it yielding gave 

To the lightest tread as 'twas washed by the wave : 

By the side of the Pirate, with outstretched hand. 

The bold intruder looked round on the band ; 

But none saw the face of that being save he ; 

In wonder he gazed ; in his eye you might see 

Surprise, and shame, and a fiend-like gleam, 

Which whispered of more than fear might dream ; 

" And is it for this — for a woman like thee ? " 

He angrily muttered and turned to the sea — 

" And is it for this I have sounded the call 

Whose notes may never unanswered fall ; 

Whose lowest tone is the knell of more 

Than can crowd at once upon Hell's broad shore ? 

And is it for this I must idly stand 

To trace the wave with my sword on the strand } 



MARITOKNE; OK, THE PIRATE OF MEXICO. 189 

Speak ! tell me, or now, by the blood on its blade, 
I will give to that pale cheek a deadlier shade." 
"The beacon! the beacon!" — she turned to the spot, 
And pointed the Chief where the light was not. 
The murmur ran through the waiting crowd ; 
It was loud at first, but it grew more loud, 
Till "the Beacon! the Beacon!'' rang on to the sky. 
But its light was extinguished, no blaze met the eye. 
" Thus much for the moment ; thy honor is clear ; 
If it suffers, then look for thy recompense here ; " 
And she threw back her mantle and gave to the 

light 
Which glared from the torches all flamingly bright, 
A form which e'en Maritorne marked not unmoved, 
But 'twas one which he did not, nor ever had loved. 
" There are spies who are waiting in ambush for thee_ 
I marked out the cavern ; 'twas near to the sea ; 
They are few, they are bold, they are guided by one 
Who has sworn ere the dawn of another day's sun 
To lead thee in triumph, unwounded, unharmed. 
To yonder proud city all chained and unarmed ; 
This swears he by all that is sacred to do, 
I heard it and hastened thus breathless to you. 
For pardon I sue not ; O punish my crime ! 
Here, here is my bosom, and now is the time ! 
The last moment beheld me imploring for breath, 
Now 'tis not worth asking, I sue but for death." 
The ocean was roaring too loudly to hear 
The words she was speaking, the Chief bent his ear ; 
His dark plume was resting half fearfully there, 
Upon the white brow of the beautiful Clare, 



IQO MARITOKNE ; OR THE PIRATE OF MEXICO. 

As a being all guilty and trembling would rest 
Self-accused, self-condemned, in the land of the blest. 
And he, its wild wearer, how heard he the tale ? 
His eye flashed the darker, his lip grew more pale ; 
But when it was finished and Clara knelt down, 
Where, where was his anger, and where was his 

frown ? 
On her forehead he printed a passionate kiss. 
" O Clara, forgive me ! remember not this. 
But forget not that thou, and thou only, shalt know 
The cause of my madness, my guilt, and my woe. 
If I fall, thou wilt read it in letters of blood 
'Neath the stone, near the rock, where the beacon- 
light glowe;d ; 
If I live," — and he hastily bowed himself, — "then 
The Fiend and the pirate were masters again." 



A light is on the waters, and the dip 

Of distant oars is heard from steep to steep : 

The hum of voices float upon the air, 

Soft, yet distinct, though distant, full and clear. 

Come they to Barritaria's Isle as midnight foes .-' 

'Tis well ! the world but roughly with them goes. 

Come they to Barritaria's Isle to join 

Their traitor arms, proud Maritorne, with thine .-' 

O, better had they never left yon shore, 

To which they may return again no more ; 

Fools ! think they he is bleeding in a strife 

Where every drop writes guilt upon his life 

For gold, for fame, for power, for aught on earth 



MAK/TORNE ; OR, THE PIRATE OF MEXICO. 191 

Which vulgar minds might think were richly worth 

A life of bloodshed and dishonor ? No ! 

They read not right who read yon pirate so ; 

The plash of troubled waters, and the sound 

Of moving vessels grating o'er the ground, 

The quick low hum of voices, the faint gush 

Of light waves gurgling as with sudden rush 

They feebly kissed the bark, then sunk away, 

As half-repenting them such welcome gay. 

Were caught, perchance, by some lone fisher's ear, 

Who plied his line or net at midnight here ; 

Perhaps he started from his drowsy mood, 

And tossed his bait still further down the flood ; 

But be that as it may, 'twas heard no more. 

And list'ning silence hovered o'er the shore. 

And yonder fire the battle sign is beaming. 

Far o'er the dusky waters redly streaming. 

The shadow of the Pirate-ship lies there, 

Its banners feebly dancing in the air ; 

Its broad sails veering idly to and fro. 

Now glitt'ring 'neath the full moon's silver glow, 

Now black'ning in the shade of night's dull frown ; 

'Twas like its Chief, in silence and alone, 

Gazing upon the shadow which it cast 

O'er every rippling wave which gently passed. 

And such had been his joyless, gloomy lot, 

Forgetting all mankind, by all forgot. 

Save that accursed one whose blasting eye 

Was glaring on him, — 'twas in vain to fly 

While vengeance whispered curses in his ear, 

And thought, the demon thought, received them there. 



192 MARITORNE ; OR THE PIRATE OF MEXICO. 

But it had ever been his lot to throw 

O'er those who passed him, shades of gloom and woe ; 

His love for Laura had been deeply cursed ; 

Hatred's black phial o'er his brow had burst ; 

He felt himself detested, and he knew 

That she whom he adored, abhorred him too. 

But O, the hapless, the ill-fated one. 

She who could love him for himself alone, 

Love him with all the crimes upon his head, 

Love when the crowd with detestation fled, — 

A deep dark shade, a wild, a with'ring blast 

Fell o'er her destiny ; the die was cast ; 

She was a wretched one, a sweet flower faded. 

Whose wand'ring tendrils round the night-shade 

braided. 
Clung to its baleful breast, — hung drooping there, 
Self-sacrificed, it drank the poisoned air 
And with'ring ....... 

1825. {U7ijiuis/icd.'\ 




AMERICA. 

And this was once the realm of Nature, where 

Wild as the wind, though exquisitely fair, 

She breathed the mountain breeze, or bowed to kiss 

The dimpling waters with unbounded bliss. 

Here in this Paradise of earth, where first 

Wild mountain Liberty began to burst, 

Once Nature's temple rose in simple grace, 

The hill her throne, the world her dwelling-place. 

And where are now her lakes, so still and lone, 

Her thousand streams with bending shrubs o'ergrown.-" 

Where her dark cat'racts tumbling from on high, 

With rainbow arch aspiring to the sky ? 

Her tow'ring pines with fadeless wreaths entwined. 

Her waving alders streaming to the wind ? 

Nor these alone, — her own, — her fav'rite child. 

All fire, all feeling ; man untaught and wild ; 

Where can the lost, lone son of Nature stray .'' 

For art's high car is rolling on its way ; 

A wand'rer of the world, he flies to drown 

The thoughts of days gone by and pleasures flown 

In the deep draught, whose dregs are death and woe, 

With slavery's iron chain concealed below. 

Once through the tangled wood, with noiseless tread 

And throbbing heart, th.e lurking warrior sped. 

Aimed his sure weapon, won the prize, and turned, 

While his high heart with wild ambition burned, 

13 



194 AMERICA. 

With song and war-whoop to his native tree, 
There on its bark to carve the victory. 
His all of learning did that act comprise, 
But still in nature s volume doubly wise. 

The wayward stream which once, with idle bound, 
Whirled on resistless in its foaming round, 
Now curbed by art flows on, a wat'ry chain 
Linking the snow-capped mountains to the main. 
Where once the alder in luxuriance grew, 
Or the tall pine its towering branches threw 
Abroad to heaven, with dark and haughty brow, 
There mark the realms of plenty smiling now ; 
There the full sheaf of Ceres richly glows, 
And Plenty's fountain blesses as it flows ; 
And man, a brute when left to wander wild, 
A reckless creature, Nature's lawless child. 
What boundless streams of knowledge rolling now 
From the full hand of art around him flow ! 
Improvement strides the surge, while from afar 
Learning rolls onward in her silver car ; 
Freedom unfurls her banner o'er his head. 
While peace sleeps sweetly on her native bed. 

The Muse arises from the wild-wood glen, 
And chants her sweet and hallowed song again, 
As in those halcyon days, which bards have sung, 
When hope was blushing, and when life was young. 
Thus shall she rise, and thus her sons shall rear 
Her sacred temple Jicrc, and only Jiere, 



AMERICA. 



195 



While Percival, her loved and chosen priest, 
Forever blessing, though himself unblest. 
Shall fan the fire that blazes at her shrine. 
And charm the ear with numbers half divine. 




LINES ADDRESSED TO A COUSIN. 

She gave me a flow'ret, — and O ! it was sweet ! 

■ 'Twas a pea in full bloom, with its dark crimson 

leaf, 
And I said in my heart, this shall be thy retreat ! 
'Tis one " sacred to Friendship " — a stranger to 

grief. 

In my bosom I placed it, — 'tis withered and gone ! 

All its freshness, its beauty, its fragrance had fled ! 
And in sorrow I sighed, — Am I tJiiis left alone .-' 

Is the gift which I cherished quite faded and dead .'' 

It has withered ! but sJte who presented it blooms, 

Still fresh and unfading, in memory Jierc ! 
And through life shall here flourish, 'mid danger and 
glooms, 
As sweet as the flower, though more lasting and 
fair ! 




ON SEEING A YOUNG LADY AT HER DEVO- 
TIONS. 

She knelt, and her dark blue eye was raised, — 

A sacred fire in its bright beam blazed. 

And it spread o'er her cold pale cheek a light 

So pure and so sacred, so clear and so bright. 

That Parian marble, though glittering fair 

'Neath the moon's pale beam or the sun's broad 

glare. 
Were far less sweet, though more dazzlingly bright. 
Than that cold cheek arrayed in its halo of light. 

! I love not the dark rosy hue of the sky 

When the bright blush of morn mantles deeply and 

high, 
But my fond soul adores the pure author of light. 
The more when she looks on the broad brow of 

night ; 
On myriads of stars glitt'ring far through the sky, 
Like the bright eyes of saints looking down from on 

high 
From their garden of Paradise, blooming in heaven, 
On the scene sleeping sweet 'neath the calm smile of 

even. 

1 love not the cheek which speaks slumber unbroken ; 
That heart hath ne'er sighed o'er hope's fast fading 

token ; 



198 ON SEEING A YOUNG LADY AT HER DEVOTIONS. 

That bosom ne'er throbbed with half fearful delight 
When it thought on its home in the regions of light, 
Or trembled and wept as with fancy's dear eye 
It gazed on the beautiful gates of the sky, 
And the angels which watch at their portals of light 
All peaceful, all sacred, all pure, and all bright ; 
But I love that pale cheek as it bends in devotion. 
Like a star sinking down on the breast of the ocean. 

1825. 




TO A YOUNG LADY, 

WHOSE MOTHER WAS INSANE FROM HER BIRTH- 

And thou hast never, never known 
A mother's love, a mother's care ! 

Hast wept, and sighed, and smiled alone, 
Unblest by e'en a mother's prayer. 

O, if sad sorrow's blighting hand 

Hath e'er an arrow, it is this : 
To feel that frenzy's burning brand 

Hath wiped away a mother's kiss ; 

To mark the gulf, the starless wave, 

Which rolls between thee and her love ; 

To feel that better were a grave, 
A grave beneath, a home above, 

Than thus that she should linger on. 
In dreamless, sunless solitude, 

Like some bright ruined shrine, where one 
All loveliness and truth hath stood. 

And he, her love, her life, her light. 
How burst the storm o'er him ! 

O, darker than Egyptian night, — 
'Twas one wild troubled dream ! 



TO A YOUNG LADY. 

To gaze upon that eye, whose beam 
Was love, and life, and light, 

To mark its wild and wandering gleam 
Which dazzles but to blight ; 

To turn in anguish and despair 
From those wild notes of sadness, 

And feel that there was darkness there, 
The midnight mist of madness ; 

To start beneath the thrilling swell 
Of notes still sweet, though wasted. 

To mark the idol loved too well. 
In all its beauty blasted ; 

O ! it were better far to kneel, 

In darkly brooding anguish. 
Upon the graves of those we love. 

Than tJius to see them languish. 




THE FEAR OF MADNESS. 

WRITTEN WHILE CONFINED TO HER BED, DURING HER LAST ILLNESS. 

There is a something which I dread, 

It is a dark, a fearful thing ; 
It steals along with withering tread, 

Or sweeps on wild destruction's wing. 

That thought comes o'er me in the hour 
Of grief, of sickness, or of sadness; 

'Tis not the dread of death — 'tis more, 
It is the dread of madness. 

O ! may these throbbing pulses pause, 
Forgetful of their feverish course ; 

May this hot brain, which, burning, glows 
With all its fiery whirlpool's force, 

Be cold, and motionless, and still, 

A tenant of its lowly bed. 
But let not dark dehrium steal — 

\Unfinis}ied.\ 
i82v 



MY LAST FAREWELL TO MY HARP. 

And must we part ? yes, part forever ? 

I'll waken thee again — no, never ; 

Silence shall chain thee cold and drear, 

And thou shalt calmly slumber here. 

Unhallowed was the eye that gazed 

Upon the lamp which brightly blazed. 

The lamp which never can expire. 

The undying, wild, poetic fire. 

And O ! unhallowed was the tongue 

Which boldly and uncouthly sung ; 

I blessed the hour when o'er my soul 

Thy magic numbers gently stole. 

And o'er it threw those heavenly strains. 

Which since have bound my heart in chains ; 

Those wild, those witching numbers still 

Will o'er my widowed bosom steal. 

I blessed that hour, but O ! my heart. 

Thou and thy lyre must part ; yes, part ; 

And this shall be my last farewell, 

This my sad bosom's latest knell. 

And here, my harp, we part forever ; 

I'll waken thee again, O ! never ; 

Silence shall chain thee cold and drear, 

And thou shalt calmly slumber here. 



SPECIMENS 



PROSE COMPOSITION. 



COLUMBUS. 

What must have been the feehngs of Christopher 
Cohimbus, when, for the first time, he knelt and 
clasped his hands, in gratitude, upon the shores of his 
newly discovered world ? Year after year has rolled 
away ; war, famine, and fire have alternately swept the 
face of that country ; the hand of tyranny hath op- 
pressed it ; the footstep of the slave hath wearily trod- 
den it ; the blood of the slaughtered hath dyed it ; the 
tears of the wretched have bedewed it ; still, even at 
this remote period, every feeling bosom will delight to 
dwell upon this brilliant era in the life of the perse- 
vering adventurer. At that moment, his name was 
stamped upon the records of history forever ; at that 
moment, doubt, fear, and anxiety fled, for his foot had 
pressed upon the threshold of the promised land. 

The bosom of Columbus hath long since ceased to 
beat ; its hopes, its fears, its projects, sleep, with him, 
the long and dreamless slumber of the grave ; but 
while there remains one generous pulsation in the 



204 COLUMBUS. 

human breast, his name and his memory will be held 
sacred. 

When the cold dews of uncertainty stood upon his 
brow ; when he beheld nothing but the wide heavens 
above, the boundless waters beneath and around him ; 
himself and his companions in that little bark, the only 
beings upon the endless world of sky and ocean ; when 
he looked back, and thought upon his native land ; 
when he looked forward, and in vain traversed the 
liquid desert for some spot upon which to fix the 
aching eye of anxiety, — O ! say, amidst all these dan- 
gers, these uncertainties, whence came that high, un- 
bending hope, which still soared onward to the world 
before him ? whence that undying patience, that more 
than mortal courage, which forbade his cheek to blanch 
amid the storm, or his heart to recoil in the dark and 
silent hour of midnight ? It was from God — it was 
of God — His Spirit overshadowed the adventurer ! By 
day, an unseen cloud directed him ; by night, a bril- 
liant, but invisible column moved before him, gleam- 
ins: athwart the boundless waste of waters. The winds 
watched over him, and the waves upheld him, for God 
was with him ; the whirlwind passed over his little 
bark, and left it still riding onward, in safety, towards 
its unknown harbor, for the eye of Him who pierces 
the deep was fixed upon it. 

Columbus had hoped, feared, and had been disap- 
pointed ; he had suffered long and patiently ; he had 
strained every faculty, every nerve ; he had pledged 
his very happiness upon the discovery of an unknown 
land ; and what must have been the feelings of his 



COLO i\l BUS. 205 

soul, when, at length bending over that very land, his 
grateful bosom offered its tribute of praise and thanks- 
giving to the Being who had guarded and guided him 
through death and danger ? He beheld the bitter 
smile of scorn and derision fade before the reality of 
that vision which had been ridiculed and mocked at ; 
he thought upon the thousand obstacles which he had 
surmounted ; he thought upon those who had regarded 
him as a self-devoted enthusiast, a visionary madman ; 
and his full heart throbbed in gratitude to Him whose 
Spirit had inspired him, whose voice had sent him 
forth, and whose arm had protected him. 
1824. 







^^;¥^J)^rJ^ 



ALPHONSO IN SEARCH OF LEARNING. 



AN ALLEGORY. 



Early one morning Alphonso set out in search of 
Learning. He travelled over barren heaths and over 
rocks, and was often obliged to ford rivers which 
seemed almost impassable ; at last, completely ex- 
hausted, and at a loss what road to take, he sat down 
desponding by the side of a rapid river. Soon a pas- 
senger approached, with whom Alphonso entered into 
conversation, and at length asked him where he was 
going. " I am," replied the stranger, " seeking Fame ; 
and already by her trump has my name been sounded 
in her courts. She has promised to iviniortalize my 
name ; follow me, and you shall richly reap the reward 
of your labor." "I also," answered Alphonso, "have a 
road to pursue, which leads to Fame ; but it is through 
Learning that I must reach her courts, and then shall 
I enjoy the fruits of my toil, in proportion to the hard- 
ships with which I have acquired it. Can you tell me 
where she can be found } " 

"You see," replied the stranger, "yonder hills which 
rise one upon the other, as far as the eye extends ; far, far 
beyond t/iem, whose every precipice you have to climb, 
Learning resides. Her temple is pleasant, but few there 
are who gain it ; many, indeed, have gone beyond these 



ALPHONSO IN SEARCH OF LEARNING. 2 07 

foremost hills, but stumbling, they have been dashed to 
pieces on the rocks ; but still they have had the reputa- 
tion of having reached her temple, and their names are 
recorded in the roll of Fame." Thus saying, the stranger 
proceeded on his journey, and left Alphonso in doubt 
whether to pursue the dangerous road of which the 
stranger had warned him, or to follow him to more easily 
acquired fame. 

At last Wisdom came to his assistance, and he resolved 
not to give up his search after Learning. He proceeded 
therefore, and had reached the foot of the hill, when he 
was met by another person, who inquired whither he 
was going. " I am in pursuit of Learning," replied Al- 
phonso. " What ! do you intend climbing yonder rug- 
ged and tiresome hill } " " I do," answered Alphonso. 

" Indolence is my companion," said the stranger : " I 
found her in yonder valley. I toiled not for her, and with- 
out toil I enjoy ease ; on the other hand. Learning can- 
not be obtained without labor ; go with me, and you shall 
enjoy life." Alphonso, partly fatigued with his long walk, 
and partly discouraged ,by the rugged appearance of the 
hill, consented. After walking on some time in a beau- 
tiful valley, Alphonso began to discover that his new 
companion was flat and insipid, that he had exhausted 
all his little fund of knowledge in the beginning of their 
journey, and that he now scarcely said anything. Thus 
continuing dissatisfied, not with the path, but with the 
companion he had, they entered a beautiful meadow, in 
which there was an arbor, called the arbor of Indolence, 
and there they lay down to rest ; but before Alphonso 
slept, a warning voice sounded in his ear, " Awake, for 



208 ALPHONSO IN SEARCH OF LEARNING. 

destruction is at hand." He heeded it not, and with his 
senses slept his conscience. 

When they arose to pursue their journey, a tempest 
gathered ; thick clouds were in the heavens ; all was 
black. Night's sable mantle was thrown over the hori- 
zon, and only now and then a flash of lightning, attended 
with a dreadful thunderbolt, showed them both the dead 
waters of oblivion ; near them was the path which slides 
the unhappy deluded mortal down to its deep and noi- 
some bed. 

Alphonso's conductor, who had before appeared cer- 
tain of being on safe ground, trembled and turned pale 
when he found himself in the fatal path. Alphonso was 
on the brink ! He receded ; his flesh grew cold, his eye- 
balls glared, and his hair stood on end. Presently he 
heard a low plashing of the dead waters of oblivion ; they 
closed with a sullen roar over the unhappy sufferer, and 
all was silent. " This is the end of the careless votary of 
Indolence," thought Alphonso, as he turned from the 
dead waters of the lake. " Let this be a lesson to me ! " 

He stood in deep perplexity some time, not daring to 
turn back, and he knew it would be certain death to pro- 
ceed ; but suddenly the clouds dispersed, the air was 
calm, and all was silent ; he blessed the returning light, 
and with new vigor passed on his way in search of 
Learning. He was overjoyed when he found himself 
out of the fatal vale of Indolence. 

Again he viewed those hills which so discouraged him 
when they met his eye before ; but now they appeared to 
him with a far different aspect, as he traced over them 
the path to Learning's happy temple. 



ALPHONSO IN SEARCH OF LEARNING. 209 

He began his journey anew, and as he proceeded, the 
ascent was easier. When he reached the top of the hill, 
a few faint rays of the bright sun of Learning warmed 
his heart, and though faint, it was sufficient to kindle 
the slumbering fire of hope in his bosom. After he had 
reached the valley below, he saw a person crossing on 
the opposite side with a light step and an open, ingenu- 
ous countenance. 

Alphonso stopped him, and inquired why he did not 
ascend the hill before him. " Because," said the stranger, 
" I seek Truth, and she dwells in the simple vale of In- 
nocence ; at her court there is no pomp, but there is 
peace ; she discloses her name to all ; some revile her, 
others say she is of no use to the world, that they are 
always as victorious without her assistance as with it. 
Her followers scarce ever suffer from the imputations of 
the vile, when they hold fast upon her garments. I can 
possess Truth and Innocence without Learning." Here 
the travellers parted — Alphonso to ascend the hill, the 
stranger to the vale of Innocence. 

Without a companion in his solitary journey, with no 
one to assist him on his way, no one to raise him if he 
stumbled, Alphonso pursued his toilsome course. At 
length, casting his eyes to the top of the hill, he perceived 
standing on its summit a figure stretching out one hand 
to assist him, the other rested on an anchor, and a bright 
beam played around her brow. Alphonso hastened to 
ascend the hill ; and when he approached, he clasped the 
outstretched hand of Hope, for that was the name of the 
fair form, and imprinted it with kisses. Hope smiled 
affectionately upon him, and with these encouraging 
u 



210 ALPHONSO IN SEARCH OF LEARNING. 

words addressed him : " Alphonso ! I came to conduct 
you to the temple of Learning ; you have overcome, 
alone, the greatest obstacles ; you shall now hav^e a con- 
ductor." 

As they came to frightful precipices, where unfortu- 
nate mortals had been dashed headlong, for daring to 
approach too near the edge, Hope would catch his hand 
and conduct him to safer ground. At last, through many 
difficulties, hazards, and reproaches, Alphonso came in 
sight of the temple of Learning. The sun was just 
sinking, and it illumed the edges of the fleecy floating 
clouds with a golden hue. Its last beam played upon 
the glittering spire of the temple ; Alphonso could scarce 
believe his eyes. They reached the threshold. After so 
many toils, so many dangers, he had now acquired the 
object of his hopes. 

They stood a moment, when the door was opened by a 
grave-looking old man, who heartily welcomed them to 
the temple. As they entered, all was light : it burst upon 
his sight like some enchanted scene, where none but 
ethereal beings dwell. Irresistibly he cast his eyes up to 
the nave of the spacious hall, and beheld Learning seated 
upon a throne of gold. A bright sun emitted its cheer- 
ing rays above his head. In one hand she held a globe, 
in the other a pen. Books were piled up in great order 
here, and in another place they were strewn in wild pro- 
fusion. Ten of her favorite disciples were ranged on 
either hand ; the swift-winged Genius with his beloved 
companion, Fancy, were seated at her right hand, and 
often did Genius cast an approving smile at the mistress 
of his heart and actions : she who had tamed the wild 



ALPHONSO IN SEARCH OF LEARNING. 2 r r 

spirit of his temper, and taught it to follow in gentler, 
softer, and sweeter murmurs. 

Hope now conducted Alphonso to the throne of Learn- 
ing. She smiled as he humbly kneeled at her footstool, 
and taking a laurel from the hand of the delighted and 
willing Genius, she crowned the brow of the elated Al- 
phonso. Fancy for a moment deserted the side of Gen- 
ius and hovered over his laurel-crowned brow ; then, 
clapping her wings in delight, she again resumed her 
former station. Learning stretched forth her hand to 
him ; "Arise," said she, "you are destined by fate to fill 
this long vacant seat." Alphonso kissed the outstretched 
hand, and gratefully took his seat at the side of Learn- 
ing. 

1819. 




SENSIBILITY. 

In this delicate emotion of the human mind there is a 
mixture of danger and dehght ; it may be indulged mod- 
erately, with pleasure to its possessor, but uncontrolled, 
it brings in its train a succession of ideal miseries, and 
sensations of acute pain or exquisite delight. 

It often causes the heart to shrink with sensitive hor- 
ror from difficulties in the path of life, slightly noticed, or 
scarcely perceptible to the mind well governed by reason, 
or fortified by principle. Lively sensibility may be con- 
sidered as the key-stone of the heart ; it often unguard- 
edly unlocks the treasures confided to its care, and pour- 
ing forth the full tide of feeling, the warmest impulses of 
the soul are wasted upon trifles or squandered on objects 
insignificant to the eye of reason, and frequently exposes 
the feeling heart to contempt and ridicule. 

Deep and delicate sensibility, that feeling of the soul 
which shrinks from observation and pours itself forth in 
secret calm retirement, must certainly, by its dignity and 
sacred character, cause feelings of reverence for its pos- 
sessor. Jesus wept over the grave of his departed friend ; 
his sensibility was aroused, and He shed tears of sorrow 
over the dark wreck of a once noble fabric in the mould- 
ering remnants of mortality before him. His prophetic 
soul gazed upon wide scenes of future desolation. He 
felt for the miseries of mankind ; He pitied their folly 
and wept over the final destruction of the human frame, 
undermined by sin and borne down by death. 



THE HOLY WRITINGS. 

Through the whole of this sacred vohime may be 
traced the finger of a God ! It is overshadowed by his 
arm, and his spirit walks forth in the sublimity of his 
commandments. What are the mad revilings of the scof- 
fer .-• They are like burning coals which fall back upon the 
head of him who hurled them, leaving the object of his 
rage uninjured. What are the most philosophic works 
of mankind when placed in comparison with it ? They 
sink into nothing. What are the brilliant shafts of hu- 
man wit when directed against it ? They are as the 
gilded wing of the butterfly, fluttering feebly against the 
nervous, the resistless pinion of an eagle. What are all 
the immense magazines of learning beside it, but a 
boundless heap of chaff.-' Yes ; the vast edifices of hu- 
man knowledge reared by the restless hand of ingenuity, 
and bedecked with all the gaudy trappings of eloquence, 
crumble into dust and fall prostrate in its presence, as 
did the heathen idol before the ark of the living God ! 

Do we ask eloquence ? Where can it be found more 
pure than from the mouth of Him whose voice of mercy 
is a murmur, and whose anger speaks in wrathful thun- 
ders .'' Do we ask sublimity.-' The eagle in its flight to- 
ward heaven is less sublime than the hallowed words of 
its Maker. Do we ask simplicity ? What is more touch- 
ingly so than the language of the sacred volume .-* Do 
we ask sweetness or tenderness .' The breath of summer 



214 THE HOLY WRITINGS. 

is less sweet than the Almighty's offered mercies. The 
fabled bird which sheds her blood for the nourishment of 
her innocent offspring, is cruel in comparison with Him, 
who bled, who died, for those who cursed and tortured 
Him. Do we ask grandeur, wildness, or strength .'' Look 
there ! there upon the law of Him whose very self is 
grandeur, whose glance is lightning, and whose arm is 
strength. 

The hand of the impious and the envious may hurl the 
dust of derision upon this sacred volume : still it will 
shine on, brighter and brighter, while time shall be ! 




CHARITY. " 

The sacred volume exhorts us to Charity. How care- 
fully, then, should we cherish this kindly feeling, this 
spark from the fountain of life, that it may beam forth 
undimmed, and, with its pure and friendly light, cast a 
ray over our many imperfections, in that day when all 
will stand in need of mercy and forbearance ! 

It is not the bare distribution of alms to the needy and 
suffering beggar, it is not the pompous offerings of opu- 
lence to the shrinking child of poverty, which constitutes 
true charity ; no, it is to be understood in a far wider 
sense ; it is forbearing to join with the multitude, when 
trampling upon a fallen fellow-creature. It is the voice 
of Charity which pleads for the wretched and the penitent, 
which raises the prostrate, and whispers forgiveness for 
the past, and hope for the future. It is her hand which 
pours the balm of consolation into the lacerated bosom 
of the returning wanderer, who dares not look back upon 
the past, and whose heart shrinks as it meets the cold 
and averted glances of those who in the hour of its pride 
had bowed before it. 

We are all liable to err. Let us make the situation of 
the suffering penitent our own. Where are the friends 
we had fondly fancied ours ? fled, as from the breath of 
pestilence, and we are desolate ; left with the arrow of 
adversity rankling in our bosoms, like the stricken deer 
by the selfish herd, to perish in solitude and wretched- 
ness. 



2l6 CHARITY. 

There is no heart so hardened and depraved, thai it 
will not, when the soft voice of Charity whispers peace 
and forgiveness, yield like wax beneath the hand which 
stamps it. Then is the moment to impress upon it the 
sacred precepts of virtue, and to place the bright rewards 
of penitence before it. " Let us, then, do as we would 
that others should do unto us ; " have mercy upon the 
fallen, and stretch forth the hand of Charity to the suf- 
fering and the penitent. 




REMARKS ON THE IMMORALITY OF THE 
STAGE. 

Why is it that the ear of modesty must be shocked by 
the indehcacy and immorahty which obstinately chngs to 
the stage, that vehicle of good or evil, that splendid en- 
gine whose movements may shed a halo of brilliancy 
around it, or leave behind the blackened traces of its 
desolating progress ? 

Can the eye of innocence gaze even upon the mimic 
characters of vice, or the ear of delicacy become familiar- 
ized to the rude and boisterous, or the more dangerously 
subtle insinuations of depravity, without quitting the fas- 
cinating scene less fastidious in its feelings, less sensible 
to the bold intrusions of barefaced wickedness ? No : 
though the change be slow and almost imperceptible, still 
it will not be the less certain ; the fatal poison will creep 
to the very vitals of virtue, and stamp deep stains upon 
the spotless tablet of innocence. 

Must, then, all that is bright and pure be shut out from 
those scenes of fascination, and delight .'* Must that 
very purity which should be cherished and guarded as a 
sacred deposit, be converted into a chain wherewith to 
shackle the amusements of its possessor .'' Would not 
the frequent indulgence of this amusement be holding 
forth a strong temptation to those who are but partially 
fortified in the principles of rectitude to overleap the 



2l8 REMARKS ON THE IMMORALITY OF THE SI AGE. 

crumbling ill-formed barrier, and plunge at once into the 
boundless ocean of vice and immorality ? 

O why will not authors, those helmsmen in the mighty 
vessel of improvement, dash the countless stains from 
the charts which they are holding to our eyes, and trans- 
form their blackened pages to pure, spotless records of 
truth and virtue ? Then we should no longer mark the 
blush of offended modesty mantling the cheek of sensi- 
bility, or the frown of disapprobation clouding the pure 
brow of refinement and morality. The stage would then 
become the guardian and the friend, instead of the fell 
destroyer of all that is pure and virtuous in the human 
breast. 




CONTEMPLATION OF THE HEAVENS. 

To count the glittering millions of the sky, to marshal 
them in bright array before us, to mark the brilliant 
traces of a Creator's presence, the foot-prints of the 
Deity, is a hallowed and sublime employment of the 
soul ; for being insensibly led onward from gazing upon 
the portals of heaven, the wonderful threshold of God's 
wide pavilion, it dares to lift itself in pure and unearthly 
communion with the Holy Spirit that inhabits there, and 
to bow in adoration and praise before the great I AM. 

To a feeling mind, the heavens unroll a vast volume, 
filled with subjects of wonder, love, and praise, — wonder, 
at the inconceivable majesty and goodness of the great 
Creator of so vast, so splendid a system ; love, for his 
condescension in deigning to bend his attention to so in- 
significant a creature as man, even in the meridian of his 
earthly glory ; and praise for his unchangeable benevo- 
lence, infinite wisdom, and perfection. What hand but 
that of a God could have formed the wide solar system 
above us .'* what voice but that of Him who created them, 
could bid the starry millions move on for thousands of 
ages in one unbroken and unceasing march ? The lights 
of heaven are bright and beautiful, still they are but feeble 
beams from the everlasting fountain of splendor, or wan- 
dering sparks of heaven's dazzling glory. Well indeed 
might Zoroaster, in the enthusiasm of his heart, worship 
the fires of heaven as parts of that ineffable and never- 



220 CONTEMFLATION OF THE HEAVENS. 

dying spirit which animates and Uves in all, through all 
eternity. 

In the dark ages of superstition and bigotry, was it 
strange that he should turn in disgust from the sacrifices 
of blood, from horrid images, the disgraceful productions 
of weak bewildered minds, to a fount of pure, unchang- 
ing, living light ; to the brilliant fires above him, holding 
their unbroken paths through heaven, pointing to God's 
throne, and whispering to the heart of something still 
more bright, more beautiful and holy ? 




THE ORIGIN OF CHIVALRY. 

When society first began to form itself, rank and au- 
thority became necessary to subdue the wild and impetu- 
ous passions which raged unbridled in the savage bosom 
of man. Oppression and vassalage first appeared in the 
form of feudal government ; each family looked up to its 
head, as each kingdom does now to its sovereign ; his 
will was absolute, and his power unbounded in his 
castle and dominions. 

In this way the rights of man were partially secured ; 
the vassal was bound to serve and succor his lord in 
the hour of danger, as it was that lord's only duty to 
support and protect his serf But in those rude and 
barbarous ages, where was weak and helpless woman 
to find a shelter from the wild and lawless multitude.-* 
and what tribunal was there to which she could appeal 
if injured .-' When man was contending with man for 
superiority, or right, where could she fly for redress .'' 
could the feeble voice of woman be heard amid the 
uproar ? No ! but it arose, though in murmurs, to the 
ear of her Maker, and that very evil which menaced 
her destruction, proved her blessing. 

In the dark ages of the world, woman held not that 
rank in society which a more enlightened age has al- 
lotted her ; she was deemed merely the slave of man's 
tyrannical will, the tool of his pleasure, — too weak to 
defend herself, and too insignificant to claim the pro- 



222 THE ORIGIN OF CHIVALRY. 

tection of the lords of the creation. As the sun of Re- 
hgion arose upon the world, the dark clouds of conten- 
tion arose with its light ; arms were the arguments 
which were unanimously chosen to decide every con- 
troversy ; the sword was the test of merit ; and the 
hand which wielded it with the greatest dexterity was 
chosen to direct the community. 

The youthful soldier, ardent and enthusiastic, was ever 
in search of some object on which to display his valor ; 
the fair sex at length caught and fixed his attention ; 
tournaments and feats of arms were instituted to dis- 
play his devotion to the cause of beauty and virtue in dis- 
tress, and love and religion were blended ; love became 
wildly romantic, religion was enthusiastically venerated ; 
the name of woman was held sacred as that of religion ; 
and both, as dear to the heart of every knight-errant 
as that of the idol, Honor ! they were blended with 
each other ; the passions held the reins, and religion, 
though contemplated with enthusiasm, was too often 
made to bow before the shrine of love and romance. 



ae 



'^y^M^^ 



BIOGRAPHY 



LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON.* 



LucRETiA Maria Davidson was born at Plattsburg, in 
the State of New York, on the 27th of September, 1808. 
Her father, Dr. OHver Davidson, is a lover of science, 
and a man of intellectual tastes. Her mother, Margaret 
Davidson (born Miller), is of a most respectable family, 
and received the best education her times afforded, at 
the school of the celebrated Scottish lady, Isabella Gra- 
ham, an institution in the city of New York, that had no 
rival in its day, and which derived advantages from the 
distinguished individual that presided over it that can 
scarcely be counterbalanced by the multiplied masters 
and multiform studies of the present day. The family 
of Miss Davidson lived in seclusion. Their pleasures and 
excitements were intellectual. Her mother has suffered 
year after year from ill health and debility ; and being a 
person of imaginative character, and most ardent and 
susceptible feelings, employed on domestic incidents, and 
concentrated in maternal tenderness, she naturally loved 
and cherished her daughter's marv^elous gifts, and added 
to the intensity of the fire with which her genius and her 
affections, mingling in one holy flame, burned tilj they 
consumed their mortal investments. We should not 

* Written by Miss Sedgwick, in the year iS . 



y.24 BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

have ventured to say thus much of the mother, who still 
survives to weep and to rejoice over her dead child more 
than many parents over their living ones, were it not to 
prove that Lucretia Davidson's character was not mirac- 
ulous, but that this flower of paradise was nurtured and 
trained by natural means and influences. 

The physical delicacy of this fragile creature was ap- 
parent in infancy. When eighteen months old, she had 
a typhus fever, which threatened her life ; but nature put 
forth its mysterious energy, and she became stronger and 
healthier than before her illness. No records were made 
of her early childhood, save that she was by turns very 
gay and very thoughtful, exhibiting thus early these com- 
mon manifestations of extreme sensibility. Her first lit- 
erary acquisition indicated her after course. She learned 
her letters at once. At the age of four she was sent to 
the Plattsburg Academy, where she learned to read and 
to form letters in sand, after the Lancasterian method. 
As soon as she could read, her books drew her away 
from the plays of childhood, and she was constantly 
found absorbed in the little volumes that her father lav- 
ished upon her. Her mother, on some occasion, in haste 
to write a letter, looked in vain for a sheet of paper. A 
whole quire had strangely disappeared from the table on 
which the writing implements usually lay ; she expressed 
a natural vexation. Her little girl came forward, con- 
fused, and said, " Mamma, I have used it." Her mother, 
knowing she had never been taught to write, was amazed, 
and asked what possible use she could have for it. Lu- 
cretia burst into tears, and replied that "she did not 
like to tell." Her mother respected the childish mystery, 



BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSO.Y. 225 

and made no farther inquiries. The paper continued to 
vanish, and the child was often observed witli pen and 
ink, still sedulously shunning observation. At last her 
mother, on seeing her make a blank book, asked what 
she was going to do with it. Lucretia blushed, and 
left the room without replying. This sharpened her 
mother's curiosity ; she watched the child narrowly, and 
saw that she made quantities of these little books, and 
that she was disturbed by observation ; and if one of the 
family requested to see them, she would burst into tears, 
and run away to hide her secret treasure. 

The mystery remained unexplained till she was six 
years old, when her mother, in exploring a closet rarely 
opened, found, behind piles of linen, a parcel of papers 
which proved to be Lucretia's manuscript books. At 
first the hieroglyphics seemed to baffle investigation. 
On one side of the leaf was an artfully sketched picture ; 
on the other, Roman letters, some placed upright, others 
horizontally, obliquely, or backwards, not formed into 
words, nor spaced in any mode. Both parents pored 
over them till they ascertained the letters were poetical 
explanations, in metre and rhyme, of the picture on the 
reverse. The little books were carefully put away as lit- 
erary curiosities. Not long after this, Lucretia came 
running to her mother, painfully agitated, her face 
covered with her hands, and tears trickling down be- 
tween her slender fingers. "O mamma! mamma!" 
she cried, sobbing, " how could you treat me so } You 
have not used me well ! My little books ! you have 
shown them to papa — Anne — Eliza; I know you have, 
O, what shall I do } " Her mother pleaded guilty, and 

15 



226 BIOGRAPHY OF LUC RETT A MARIA DAVIDSON. 

tried to soothe the child by promising not to do so again : 
Lucretia's face brightened ; a sunny smile played through 
her tears as she replied, " O mamma, I am not afraid 
you will do so again, for I have burned them all ; " and 
so she had ! This reserve proceeded from nothing cold 
or exclusive in her character ; never was there a more 
loving or sympathetic creature. It would be difficult to 
say which was most rare, her modesty, or the genius 
it sanctified. She did not learn to write till she was 
between six and seven ; her passion for knowledge was 
then rapidly developing ; she read with the closest atten- 
tion, and was continually running to her parents with 
questions and remarks that startled them. At a very 
early age, her mother implanted the seeds of religion, 
the first that should be sown in the virgin soil of the 
heart. That the dews of Heaven fell upon them, is evi- 
dent from the breathing of piety throughout her poetry, 
and still more from its precious fruit in her life. Her 
mother remarks, that, "from her earliest years, she 
evinced a fear of doing anything displeasing in the sight 
of God ; and if, in her gayest sallies, she caught a look 
of disapprobation from me, she would ask, with the most 
artless simplicity, ' O mother, was that wicked } ' " 

There are very early, in most children's lives, certain 
conventional limits to their humanity, only certain forms 
of animal life that are respected and cherished. A robin, 
a butterfly, or a kitten is a legitimate object of their love 
and caresses ; but woe to the beetle, the caterpillar, or 
the rat that is thrown upon their tender mercies ! Lu- 
cretia Davidson made no such artificial discriminations ; 
she seemed to have an instinctive kindness for every liv- 



BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRE TIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 227 

ing thing. When she was about nine, one of her school- 
fellows gave her a young rat that had broken its leg in 
attempting to escape from a trap ; she tore off a part of 
her pocket-handkerchief, bound up the maimed leg, 
carried the animal home, and nursed it tenderly. The 
rat, in spite of the care of its little leech, died, and was 
buried in the garden, and honored with the meed of a 
" melodious tear." This lament has not been preserved ; 
but one she wrote soon after, on the death of a maimed 
pet robin, is given here as the earliest record of her 
Muse that has been preserved : — 

"ON THE DEATH OF MY ROBIN. 

Underneath this turf doth lie 

A little bird which ne'er could fly ; 

Twelve large angle-worms did fill 

This little bird, whom they did kill. 

Puss, if you should chance to smell 

My little bird from his dark cell, 

O ! do be merciful, my cat, 

And not serve him as you did my rat ! " 

Her application to her studies at school was intense. 
Her mother judiciously, but in vain, attempted a di- 
version in favor of that legitimate sedative to female 
genius, the needle ; Lucretia performed her prescribed 
tasks with fidelity and with amazing celerity, and was 
again buried in her book. 

When she was about twelve, she accompanied her 
father to the celebration of Washington's birth-night. 
The music and decorations excited her imagination ; 
but it was not with her, as with most children, the 



228 BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON, 

mere pleasure of stimulated sensations ; she had studied 
the character and history of the Father of her country, 
and the " fete" stirred up her enthusiasm, and inspired 
that feeling of actual existence and presence peculiar 
to minds of her temperament. 

To the imaginative there is an extension of life far 
back into the dim past, and forward into the untried 
future, denied to those of common mould. 

The day after the fete her elder sister found her ab- 
sorbed in writing. She had sketched an urn, and 
written two stanzas beneath it : she was persuaded to 
show them to her mother ; she brought them, blush- 
ing and trembling ; her mother was ill, in bed ; but 
she expressed her delight with such unequivocal ani- 
mation, that the child's face changed from doubt to 
rapture, and she seized the paper, ran away, and im- 
mediately added the concluding stanzas ; when they 
were finished, her mother pressed her to her bosom, 
wept with delight, and promised her all the aid and 
encouragement she could give her ; the sensitive child 
burst into tears. " And do you wish me to write, 
mamma .'' and will papa approve .-' and will it be right 
that I should do so } " This delicate conscientiousness 
gives an imperishable charm to the stanzas, which will 
be found among the poems in this volume, under the 
title of "A Hero's Dust." 

Lucretia did not escape the common trial of preco- 
cious genius. A literary friend, to whom Mrs. Davidson 
showed the stanzas, suspected the child had, perhaps 
unconsciously, repeated something she had gathered 
from the mass of her reading, and she betrayed 



BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRE TI A MARIA DAVIDSON. 229 

her suspicion to Lucretia ; she felt her rectitude im- 
peached, and this, and not the wounded pride of the 
young author, made her weep till she was actually ill. 
As soon as she recovered her tranquillity, she offered a 
poetic and playful remonstrance, which set the matter 
at rest, and put an end to all future question of the 
authenticity of her productions. Before she was twelve 
years old, she had read the English poets. "The Eng- 
lish poets," says Southey, in his review of Miss 
Davidson's poems, " though a vague term, was a whole- 
some course, for such a mind." She had read, beside, 
much history, sacred and profane, novels, and other 
works of imagination. Dramatic works were particu- 
larly attractive to her ; her devotion to Shakspeare is 
expressed in an address to him written about this time, 
from which we extract the following stanzas : — 

" Heaven, in compassion to man's erring heart, 
Gave thee of virtue, then of vice a part. 
Lest we, in wonder, here should bow before thee, 
Break God's commandment, worship and adore thee." 

Ordinary romances, and even those highly wrought fic- 
tions that without any type in Nature have such a mis- 
chievous charm for most imaginative young persons, she 
instinctively rejected ; her healthy appetite, keen as it 
was, was under the government of a pure and sound na- 
ture. Her mother, always aware of the worth of the gem 
committed to her keeping, amidst her sufferings from 
ill health kept a watchful eye on her child, directed her 
pursuits, and .sympathized in all her little school labors 
and trials ; she perceived that Lucretia was growing 



230 BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

pale and sickly over her studies, and she judiciously 
withdrew her, for a time, from school. She was soon 
rewarded for this wise measure by hearing her child's 
bounding step as she approached her sick-room, and 
seeing the cheek bent over her pillow blooming 
with returning health. How miserably mistaken are 
those, who fancy that all the child's lessons must be 
learned from the school-book and school-room ! This 
apt pupil of Nature had only changed her books and 
her master ; now, she sat at the feet of the great 
teacher, Nature, and read, and listened, and thought, as 
she wandered along the Saranac, or contemplated the 
varying aspects of Cumberland Bay. She would sit for 
hours and watch the progress of a thunder-storm, from 
the first gathering of the clouds to the farewell smile 
of the rainbow. " Twilight," and " The Evening Spirit," 
are examples of the impression of these studies and 
pensive meditations. 

In her thirteenth year the clouds seemed heavily 
gathering over her morning ; her mother, who had 
hitherto been her guide and companion, could no 
longer extend to her child the sympathy and encourage- 
ment which she needed. Lucretia was oppressed with 
the apprehension of losing this fond parent, who for 
weeks and months seemed upon the verge of the grave. 
There are, among her unpublished poems, some touch- 
ing lines to her mother, written, I believe, about this 
time, concluding thus: — 

" Hang not thy harp upon the willow, 
That weeps o'er every passing wave ; 
This life is but a restless pillow ; 

There's calm and peace beyond the gr?,ve." 



BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRE TIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 23 1 

As Mrs. Davidson's health gradually amended, with 
it returned her desire to give her daughter every means 
in her power to aid the development of her extraordi- 
nary genius. Her extreme sensibility and delicate 
health subjected her, at times, to depressions of spirit ; 
but she had nothing of the morbid dejection, the ex- 
clusiveness, and hostility to the world, that are the re- 
sults of self-exaggeration, selfishness, and self-idolatry, 
and not the natural offspring of genius and true feel- 
ing, which, in their healthy state, are pure and living 
fountains flowing out in abundant streams of love and 
kindness. 

Indulgent as Mrs. Davidson was, she was too wise 
to permit Lucretia to forego entirely the customary 
employments of her sex. When engaged with these, it 
seems, she sometimes played truant with the Muse. 
Once she had promised to do a sewing task, and had 
eagerly run off for her work-basket ; she loitered, and 
when she returned, she found her mother had done 
the work, and that there was a shade of just displeas- 
ure on her countenance. " O mamma ! " she said, " I 
did forget ; I am grieved, I did not mean to neglect 
you." " Where have you been, Lucretia } " " I have 
been writing," she replied, confused ; "as I passed the 
window, I saw a solitary sweet pea ; I thought they 
were all gone. This was alone ; I ran to smell it ; 
but before I could reach it, a gust of wind broke the 
stem. I turned away disappointed, and was coming 
back to you ; but as I passed the table, there stood 
the inkstand, and I forgot you." If our readers will 
turn to her printed poems, and read the " Last Flower 



232 BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

of the Garden," they will not wonder that her mother 
kissed her, and bade her never resist a similar im- 
pulse. 

When in her " happy moments," as she termed them, 
the impulse to write was irresistible ; she always wrote 
rapidly, and sometimes expressed a wish that she had 
two pairs of hands, to record as fast as she composed. 
She wrote her short pieces standing, often three or 
four in a day, in the midst of the family, blind and 
deaf to all around her, wrapt in her own visions. She 
herself describes these visitations of her Muse, in an 
address to her, beginning — 

" Enchanted when thy voice I hear, 

I drop each earthly care ; 

I feel as wafted from the world 

To Fancy's realms of air." 

When composing her long and complicated poems, 
like " Amir Khan," she required entire seclusion ; if 
her pieces were seen in the process of production, the 
spell was dissolved ; she could not finish them, and 
they were cast aside as rubbish. When writing a poem 
of considerable length, she retired to her own apart- 
ment, closed the blinds, and in warm weather placed 
her ^olian harp in the window. Her mother has de- 
scribed her on one of these occasions, when an artist 
would have painted her as a young genius commun- 
ing with her Muse. We quote her mother's graphic 
description : " I entered the room ; she was sitting with 
scarcely light enough to discern the characters she was 
tracing ; her harp was in the window, touched by a 
breeze just sufficient to rouse the spirit of harmony ; 



BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MART A DAVIDSON. 233 

her comb had fallen on the floor, and her long dark 
ringlets hung in rich profusion over her neck and 
shoulders ; her cheek glowed with animation ; her lips 
were half unclosed ; her full dark eye was radiant with 
the light of genius, and beaming with sensibility ; her 
head rested on her left hand, while she held her pen 
in her right ; she looked like the inhabitant of another 
sphere ; she was so wholly absorbed that she did not 
observe my entrance. I looked over her shoulder and 
read the following lines : — 

" ' What heavenly music strikes my ravished ear, 
So soft, so melancholy, and so clear ? 
And do the tuneful Nine then touch the lyre, 
To fill each bosom with poetic fire ? 
Or does some angel strike the sounding strings 
Who caught from Echo the wild note he sings ? 
But ah ! another strain, how sweet, how wild ! 
Now rushing low, 'tis soothing, soft, and mild.' 

" The noise I made on leaving the room roused her, 
and she soon after brought me her ' Lines to an 
./Eolian Harp.' " 

During the winter of 1822 she wrote a poetical ro- 
mance, entitled " Rodri." She burned this, save a few 
fragments found after her death. These indicate a well- 
contrived story, and are marked by the marvelous ease 
and grace that characterized her versification. During 
this winter she wrote also a tragedy, "The Reward 
of Ambition," the only production she ever read aloud 
to her family. The following summer, her health again 
failing, she was withdrawn once more from school, and 
sent on a visit to some friends in Canada. A letter, too 
long to be inserted here entire, gives a very interest- 



234 BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

ing account of the impression produced on this Httle 
thoughtful and feeling recluse, by new objects and 
new aspects of society. " We visited," says the writer, 
"the British fortifications at Isle-aux-Noix. The broad 
ditch, the lofty ramparts, the draw-bridge, the covered 
gate-way, the wide-mouthed cannon, the arsenal, and 
all the imposing paraphernalia of a military fortress, 
seemed connected in her mind with powerful associ- 
ations of what she had read, but never viewed be- 
fore. Instead of shrinking from objects associated 
with carnage and death, like many who possess not 
half her sensibility, she appeared for the moment to 
be attended by the god of war, and drank the spirit 
of battles and siege, with the bright vision before her 
eyes, of conquering heroes, and wreaths of victory." 
It is curious to see thus early the effect of story and 
song in overcoming the instincts of nature ; to see this 
tender, gentle creature contemplating the engines of 
war, not with natural dread as instruments of torture 
and death, but rather as the forges by which tri- 
umphal cars and wreaths of victory were to be wrought. 
A similar manifestation of the effect of tradition and 
association on her poetic imagination is described in 
the following passages from the same letter : " She 
found much less in the Protestant than in the Cath- 
olic churches to awaken those romantic and poetic 
associations, created by the record of events in the 
history of antiquity and traditional story, and much 
less to accord with the fictions of her high-wrought 
imagination. In viewing the buildings of the city, or 
the paintings in the churches, the same uniformity of 



BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 235 

taste was observable. The modern, however beautiful 
in design or execution, had little power to fix her at- 
tention ; while the grand, the ancient, the romantic, 
seized upon her imagination with irresistible power. 
The sanctity of time seemed, to her mind, to give a 
sublimity to the simplest objects ; and whatever was 
connected with great events in history, or with the 
lapse of ages long gone by, riveted and absorbed 
every faculty of her mind. During our visit to the 
nunneries she said but little, and seemed abstracted 
in thought, as if, as she herself so beautifully expresses 
it, to 

" ' Roll back the tide of time, and raise 
The faded forms of other days.' 

" She had an opportunity of viewing an elegant col- 
lection of paintings. She seemed in ecstasies all the 
evening, and every feature beamed with joy." The 
writer, after proceeding to give an account of her sur- 
prising success in attempts at pencil-sketches from 
Nature, expresses his delight and amazement at the 
attainments of this girl of fourteen years in general 
literature, and at the independence and originality of 
mind that resisted the subduing, and, if I may be allowed 
the expression, the subordinating effect of this early 
intimacy with captivating models. A marvelous resist- 
ance, if we take into the account " that timid, retiring 
modesty," which, as the writer of the letter says, 
''marked her even to painful excess." Lucretia re- 
turned to her mother with renovated health, and her 
mind bright with new impressions and joyous emotions. 



236 BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Religion is the natural, and only sustaining element 
of such a character. Where, but at the ever fresh, 
sweet, and life-giving fountains of the Bible, could such 
a spirit have drunk, and not again thirsted ? During 
the winter of 1823, she applied herself more closely 
than ever to her studies. She read the Holy Scrip- 
tures with fixed attention. She almost committed to 
memory the Psalms of David, the Lamentations of 
Jeremiah, and the book of Job, guided in her selection 
by her poetic taste. Byron somewhere pronounces the 
book of Job the sublimest poetry on record. During 
the winter Miss Davidson wrote " A Hymn on Crea- 
tion," " The Exit from Egyptian Bondage," and versi- 
fied many chapters of the Bible. She read the New 
Testament, and particularly those parts of it that con- 
tained the most affecting passages in the history of 
our Saviour, with the deepest emotion. 

In her intellectual pursuits and attainments only was 
she premature. She retained unimpared the innocence, 
simplicity, and modesty of a child. We have had de- 
scriptions of the extreme loveliness of her face, and 
gracefulness of her person, from less doubtful authority 
than a fond mother. 

Our country towns are not regulated by the conven- 
tional systems of the cities, where a youthful beauty is 
warily confined to the nursery and the school till the 
prescribed age for coming out, the cotip-de-tJieatj'e of 
every young city-woman's life, arrives. In the country, 
as soon as a girl can contribute to the pleasures of so- 
ciety, she is invited into it. During the winter of 1823, 
Plattsburgh was gay, and Miss Davidson was eagerly 



BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 237 

sought to embellish the village dances. She had been 
at a dancing school, and, like most young persons, en- 
joyed excessively this natural exercise ; for that may be 
called natural which exists among all nations, barbarous 
and civilized. 

Mrs. Davidson has given an account of her daughter's 
first ball, which all young ladies, at least, will thank us 
for transcribing almost verbatim, as it places her more 
within the circle of their sympathies. Her mother had 
consented to her attending one or two public assemblies, 
in the hope they might diminish her extreme timid- 
ity, painful both to Lucretia and her friends. The day 
arrived ; Mrs. Davidson was consulting with her eldest 
daughter upon the all-important matter of the dresses 
for the evening ; Lucretia sat by, reading, without rais- 
ing her eyes from the book, one of the Waverly Novels. 
" Mamma, what shall Luly wear .'' " asked her eldest sis- 
ter, calling her by the pretty diminutive by which they 
usually addressed her at home. " Come, Lucretia, what 
color will you wear to-night } " " Where ? " " Where ; 
why, to the assembly, to be sure." " The assembly ; is it 
to-night .'' so it is ! " and she tossed away the book and 
danced about the room half wild with delight ; her sister 
at length called her to order, and the momentous ques- 
tion respecting the dress was definitely settled ; she then 
resumed her reading, and, giving no thought to the ball, 
she was again absorbed in her book. This did not re- 
sult from carelessness of appearance, or indifference to 
dress ; on the contrary, she was rather remarkable for 
that nice taste which belongs to an eye for proportion 
and coloring ; and any little embellishment or ornament 



238 BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

she wore was well chosen and well placed ; but she had 
the right estimate of the relative value of objects, which 
belongs to a superior mind. When the evening ap- 
proached, the star of the ball again shone forth ; she 
threw aside her book, and began the offices of the toilet 
with girlish interest, and, it might be, some heart-beating 
at the probable effect of the lovely face her mirror 
reflected. Her sister was to arrange her hair. Lucretia 
put on her dressing-gown to await her convenience ; but 
when the time came, she was missing. " We called her 
in vain," says Mrs. Davidson ; " at last, opening the par- 
lor door, I distinctly saw, for it was twilight, some person 
sitting behind the large close stove ; I approached, and 
found Lucretia writing poetry ! moralizing on what the 
world calls pleasure ! I was almost dumb with amaze- 
ment. She was eager to go, delighted with the prospect 
of pleasure before her ; yet she acted as if the time were 
too precious to spend in the necessary preparations, and 
she sat still, and finished the last stanza, while I stood 
by, mute with astonishment at this strange bearing in a 
girl of fourteen, preparing to attend her first ball, an 
event she had anticipated with so many mingled emo- 
tions." " She returned from the assembly," continues 
her mother, " wild with delight. ' O mamma,' she said, 
' I wish you had been there ! when I first entered, the 
glare of light dazzled my eyes ; my head whirled, and I 
felt as if I were treading on air ; all was so gay, so bril- 
liant ! but I grew tired at last, and was glad to hear sis- 
ter say it was time to go home.' " 

The next day the ball was dismissed from her mind, 
and she returned to her studies with her customary ar- 



BIOGRAPHY OF LUCKETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 239 

dor. During the winter she read " Josephus," " Charles 
the Fifth," " Charles Twelfth ; " read over " Shakspeare," 
and various other works in prose and poetry ; she par- 
ticularly liked " Addison," and read almost every day a 
portion of the " Spectator." Her ardent love of literature 
seldom interfered with her social dispositions, never with 
her domestic affections ; she was ever the life and joy of 
the home circle. Great demands were made on her 
feelings about this time, by two extraordinary domestic 
events, — the marriage and removal of her elder sister, 
her beloved friend and companion, and the birth of an- 
other, the little Margaret, so often the fond subject of 
her poetry. New and doubtless sanative emotions were 
called forth by this last event. The lines entitled " On 
the Birth of a Sister," were written about this time ; and 
" The Smile of Innocence," marked, we think, by more 
originality and beauty, were written soon after, and, as 
the previously mentioned ones were, with her infant sis- 
ter in her lap. What a subject for a painter would this 
beautiful impersonation of genius and love have pre- 
sented ! 

The last three most beautiful stanzas, which we here 
quote, must have been inspired by the sleeping infant 
on her lap, and they seem to have reflected her soul's 
image, as we have seen the little inland lake catch 
and give back the marvelous beauty of the sunset 
clouds. 

"But there's a smile, 'tis sweeter still, 

'Tis one far dearer to my soul ; 
It is a smile which angels might 

Upon their brightest list enroll. 



240 BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRE TIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

" It is the smile of innocence, 

Of sleeping infancy's light dream ; 
Like lightning on a summer's eve, 
It sheds a soft and pensive gleam. 

" It dances round the dimpled cheek, 
And tells of happiness within ; 
It smiles what it can never speak, — 
A human heart devoid of sin." 



" Soon after her marriage," says Mrs. Davidson, " her 
sister, Mrs. Townsend, removed to Canada ; and many 
circumstances combined to interrupt her Hterary pur- 
suits, and call forth, not only the energies of her mind 
but to develop the filial devotion and total sacrifice 
of all selfish feelings, which gave a new and elevated 
tone to her character, and showed us that there was 
no gratification, either in pursuance of mental improve- 
ment, or personal ease, but must bend to her high 
standard of filial duty." Her mother was very ill, and 
to add to the calamity, her monthly nurse was taken 
sick, and left her ; the infant, too, was ill. Lucretia 
sustained her multiplied cares with firmness and effi- 
ciency : the conviction that she was doing her duty 
gave her strength almost preternatural. I shall again 
quote her mother's words, for I fear to enfeeble, by 
any version of my own, the beautiful example of this 
conscientious little being. " Lucretia astonished us all ; 
she took her station in my sick-room, and devoted her- 
self wholly to the mother and the child ; and when my 
recovery became doubtful, instead of resigning herself 
to grief, her exertions were redoubled, not only for the 
comfort of the sick, but she was an angel of conso- 



BIOGRAPHY OF LUCKETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 24 1 

lation to her afflicted father. We were amazed at the 
exertions she made, and the fatigue she endured ; for, 
with nerves so weak, a constitution so dehcate, and 
sensibihty so exquisite, we trembled lest she should 
sink with anxiety and fatigue. Until it ceased to be 
necessary, she performed not only the duty of a nurse, 
but acted as superintendent of the household." When 
her mother became convalescent, Lucretia continued her 
attentions to domestic affairs. " She did not so much 
yield to her ruling passion as to look into a book, or 
take up a pen (says her mother) lest she should again 
become so absorbed in them as to neglect to perform 
those little offices which a feeble, affectionate mother 
had a right to claim at her hands." As was to be 
expected from the intimate union of soul and body, 
when her mind was starved, it became dejected and her 
body weak ; and, in spite of her filial eftbrts, her mother 
detected tears on her cheeks, was alarmed by her ex- 
cessive paleness, and expressed her apprehensions that 
she was ill. " No, mamma," she replied, " not ill, only 
out of spirits." Her mother then remarked that of late 
she never read or wrote. She burst into tears, a full 
explanation followed, and the generous mother succeed- 
ed in convincing her child that she had been misguided 
in the course she had adopted ; that the strongest wish 
of her heart was to advance her in her literary career, 
and for this she would make every exertion in her power ; 
at the same time she very judiciously advised her to 
intersperse her literary pursuits with those domestic 
occupations so essential to prepare every woman in oui 
land for a housewife, her probable destiny. 

16 



242 BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

This conversation had a most happy effect ; the 
stream flowed again in its natural channel, and Lucre- 
tia became cheerful, read and wrote, and practiced 
drawing. She had a decided taste for drawing, and 
excelled in it. She sung over her work, and in every 
way manifested the healthy condition that results from 
a wise obedience to the laws of nature. 

We trust there are thousands of young ladies in our 
land, who, at the call of filial duty, would cheerfully per- 
form domestic labor ; but if there are any who would 
make a strong love for more elevated and refined pur- 
suits an excuse for neglecting these coarser duties, we 
would commend them to the example of this consci- 
entious child. She, if any could, might have pleaded 
her genius, or her delicate health, or her mother's most 
tender indulgence, for a failure, that in her would have 
hardly seemed to us a fault. 

During this summer, she went to Canada with her 
mother, where she reveled in an unexplored library, 
and enjoyed most heartily the social pleasures at her 
sister's. They frequently had a family concert of music 
in the evening. Mrs. Townsend (her sister) accom- 
panied the instruments with her fine voice. Lucretia 
was often moved by the music, and particularly by her 
favorite song, Moore's " Farewell to my Harp ; " this 
she would have sung to her at twilight, when it would 
excite a shivering through her whole frame. On one 
occasion, she became cold and pale, and was near faint- 
ing, and afterwards poured her excited feelings forth 
in the lines addressed " To my Sister." 

We insert here a striking circumstance that occurred 



BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 243 

during a visit to her sister the following year. She 
was at that time employed in writing her longest pub- 
lished poem, " Amir Khan." Immediately after break- 
fast she went to walk ; and not returning to dinner, 
nor even when the evening approached, Mr. Townsend 
set forth in search of her. He met her, and as her 
eye encountered his, she smiled and blushed, as if she 
felt conscious of having been a little ridiculous. She 
said she had called on a friend, and, having found her 
absent, had gone to her library, where she had been 
examining some volumes of an Encyclopedia to aid 
her, we believe, in the Oriental story she was employed 
upon. She forgot her dinner and her tea, and had 
remained' reading, standing, and with her hat on, till 
the disappearance of daylight brought her to her senses. 
In the interval between her visits, she wrote several 
letters to her friends, which are chiefly interesting from 
the indications they afford of her social and affectionate 
spirit. We subjoin a few extracts. She had returned 
to Plattsburg amid the bustle of a Fourth of July cel- 
ebration. 

" We found," she says, " our brother Yankees had 
turned out well to celebrate the Fourth. The wharf, 
from the hill to the very edge of the water, even the 
rafts and sloops, were black with the crowd. If some 
very good genius, who presided over my destiny at 
that time, had not spread its protecting pinions around 
me, like everything else in my possession, I should 
have lost even my precious self What a truly lament- 
able accident it would have been just at that moment ! 
We took a carriage, and were extricating ourselves 



244 BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

from the crowd, when Mr. , who had pressed him- 
self through, came to shake hands and bid good- 

by. He is now on his way to . Well ! here 

is health, happiness, and a bushel of love to all mar- 
ried people ! Is it possible, you ask, that sister Lue 
could ever have permitted such a toast to pass her 
lips ? We arrived safely at our good old home, and 
found everything as we left it. The chimney swallows 
had taken up their residence in the chimney, and rat- 
tled the soot from their sable habitations over the 
hearth and carpet. It looked like desolation indeed. 
The grass is high in the yard ; the wild-roses, double- 
roses, and sweet-briers are in full bloom, and, take it all 
in all, the spot looks much as the garden of Eden did 
after the expulsion of Adam and Eve. We had just 
done tea when M. came in and sat an hour or two. 
What in the name of wonder could he have found to 
talk about all that time } Something, dear sister, you 
would not have thought of; something of so little con- 
sequence that the time he spent glided swiftly, almost 
unnoticed. I had him all to myself, tete-a-tete. I had 
almost forgotten to tell you I had yesterday a present 
of a most beautiful bouquet : I wore it to church in the 
afternoon ; but it has withered and faded, — 

' Withered, like the world's treasures, 
Faded, like the world's pleasures.' " 

From the sort of mystical, girl-like allusions in' the 
above extracts, to persons whose initials only are given, 
to bouquets and tete-a-tetes, we infer that she thus early 
had declared lovers even at this age, for she was not 



BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 245 

yet sixteen : her mother says she had resolved never 
to marry. " Her reasons," continues her mother, " for 
this decision were, that her peculiar habits, her entire 
devotion to her books, and scribbling (as she called it) 
unfitted her for the care of a family ; she could not do 
justice to husband or children, while her whole soul 
was absorbed in literary pursuits ; she was not willing 
to resign them for any man ; therefore she had formed 
the resolution to lead a single life," — a resolution that 
would have lasted probably till she had passed under 
the dominion of a stronger passion than her love for 
the Muses. With aftections like hers, and a most 
lovely person and attractive manners, her resolution 
would scarcely have enabled her to escape the common 
destiny of her sex. The following is an extract from a 
letter written after participating in several gay parties : 
" Indeed, my dear brother, I have turned round like a 
top for the last two or three weeks, and am glad to 
seat myself once more in my favorite corner. How, 
think you, should I stand it to be whirled in the giddy 
round of dissipation t I come home from the blaze of 
light, from the laugh of mirth, the smile of complai- 
sance, and seeming happiness, and the vision passes 
from my mind like the brilliant but transitory hues of 
the rainbow ; and I think with regret on the many, 
very many happy hours I have passed with you and 
Annie. O ! I do want to see you, indeed I do. You 
think me wild, thoughtless, and perhaps unfeeling; 
but I assure you I can be sober. I sometimes think, 
and I can and do feel. Why have you not written.!" 
not one word in almost three weeks ! Dear brother 



246 BIOGRAPHY OF LVCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

and sister, I must write ; but, dear Annie, I am now 
doomed to dim your eye and cloud your brow, for I 
know that what I have to communicate will surprise 
and distress you. Our dear cousin John is dead! O! 
I need not tell you how much, how deeply he is la- 
mented ; you knew him, and like every one else who 
did, you loved him. Poor Eliza! how my heart aches 
for her ! her father, her mother, her brother, all gone ; 
almost the last, the dearest tie is broken which bound 
her to life ; what a vacancy must there be in her heart ! 
How fatal would it prove to almost every hope in life, 
were we allowed even a momentary glimpse of futurity! 
for often half the enjoyments of life consist in the an- 
ticipation of pleasures, which may never be ours." 
Soon after this Lucretia witnessed the death of a be- 
loved young friend ; it was the first death she had 
seen, and it had its natural effect on a reflecting and 
sensitive mind. Her thoughts wandered through eter- 
nity by the light of religion, the only light that pene- 
trates beyond the death-bed. She wrote many relig- 
ious pieces, — and among them one commencing with 

" O that the eagle's wing were mine." 

During this winter her application to her books was 
so unremitting that her parents again became alarmed 
for her health, and persuaded her occasionally to join in 
the amusements of Plattsburg. She came home one 
night at twelve o'clock, from a ball ; and, after giving a 
most lively account of all she had seen and heard to her 
mother, she quietly seated herself at the table, and wrote 
her " Reflections after leaving a Ball-room." Her spirit, 



BIOGRAPHY OF LUC RE TI A MARIA DAVIDSON. 247 

though it glided with kind sympathies into the common 
pleasures of youth, never seemed to relax its tie to the 
spiritual world. 

During the summer of 1824, Captain Partridge visited 
Plattsburg, with his soldier scholars. Military display 
had its usual exciting effect on Miss Davidson's imagi- 
nation, and she addressed to the " Vermont Cadets " 
several spirited stanzas, which might have come from the 
martial Clorinda. 

It was about this time that she finished " Amir Khan," 
and began a tale of some length, which she entitled the 
" Recluse of the Saranac." " Amir Khan " has long 
been before the public ; but we think it has suffered from 
a general and very natural distrust of precocious genius. 
The versification is graceful, the story beautifully devel- 
oped, and the Orientalism well sustained. We think it 
would not have done discredit to our best popular poets 
in the meridian of their fame : as the production of a 
girl of fifteen, it seems prodigious. On her mother dis- 
covering and reading a part of her romance, Lucretia 
manifested her usual shrinkings, and with many tears 
exacted a promise that she would not again look at it till 
it was finished ; she never again saw it till after her 
daughter's death. Lucretia had a most whimsical fancy 
for cutting sheets of paper into narrow strips, sewing 
them together, and writing on both sides ; and once 
playfully boasting to her mother of having written some 
yards, she produced a roll, and forbidding her mother's 
approach, she measured off twenty yards ! She often ex- 
pressed a wish to spend one fortnight alone, even to the 
exclusion of her little pet sister ; and Mrs. Davidson, 



248 BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRE TIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

eager to afford her every gratification in her power, had 
a room prepared for her recess ; her dinner was sent up 
to her, she dechned coming down to tea, and her mother, 
on going to her apartment, fomid her writing, — her 
plate untouched. 

Some secret joy it was natural her mother should feel 
at this devotion to intellectual pleasure ; but her good 
sense or her maternal anxiety got the better of it, and 
she persuaded Lucretia to consent to the interruption of 
a daily walk. It was about this period that she became 
acquainted with the gentleman who was destined to in- 
fluence the brief space of life that remained to her. 
The late Hon. Moss Kent, with whom her mother had 
been acquainted for many years previous to her mar- 
riage, had often been a guest at the house of Dr. David- 
son, but it had so happened that he had never met Lu- 
cretia since her early childhood. Struck with some little 
effusions which were in the possession of his sister, Mrs. 

P , he went immediately to see Mrs. Davidson, to 

ask the privilege of reading some of her last productions. 
On his way to the house he met Lucretia ; he had been 
interested by the reputation of her genius and modesty ; 
no wonder that the beautiful form in which it was en- 
shrined, should have called this interest into sudden and 
effective action. Miss Davidson was just sixteen ; her 
complexion was the most beautiful brunette, clear and 
brilliant, of that warm tint that seems to belong to lands 
of the sun rather than to our chilled regions ; indeed, 
her whole organization, mental as well as physical, her 
deep and quick sensibility, her early development, were 
characteristics of a warmer clime than ours ; her stature 



BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRE TIA MARIA DAVIDSON: 249 

was of the middle height, her form slight and symmet- 
rical, her hair profuse, dark, and curling", her mouth and 
nose regular, and as beautiful as if they had been chis- 
eled by an inspired artist ; and through this fitting me- 
dium beamed her angelic spirit. " Mr. Kent, with all 
the enthusiasm inherent in his nature, after examining 
her commonplace-book, resolved, if he could induce her 
parents to resign Lucretia to his care, to afford her every 
facility for improvement that could be obtained in the 
country ; and in short, he proposed to adopt her as his 
own child. Her parents took the subject into consid- 
eration, and complied so far with his benevolent wishes 
as to permit him to take an active interest in her educa- 
tion, deferring to future consideration the question of 
his adopting her. Had she lived, they would, no doubt, 
have consented to his plan. It was, after some delib- 
eration, decided to send her a few months to the Troy 
Seminary ; and on the same evening she wrote the fol- 
lowing letter to her brother and sister : — 

" What think you } ' ere another moon shall fill, round 
as my shield,' I shall be at Mrs. Willard's seminary ; in 
a fortnight I shall probably have left Plattsburg, not to 
return at least until the expiration of six months. O ! I 
am so delighted, so happy ! I shall scarcely eat, drink, or 
sleep for a month to come. You and Anne must both 
write to me often ; and you must not laugh when you 
think of poor Luly in the far-famed city of Troy, drop- 
ping handkerchiefs, keys, gloves, etc. ; in short, some- 
thing of everything I have. It is well if you can read 
what I have written, for papa and mamma are talking, 
and my head whirls like a top. O ! how my poor head 
aches ! Such a surprise as I have had !" 



250 BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

On the 24th of November, 1824, she left home, health 
on her cheek and in her bosom, and flushed with the 
most ardent expectations of getting rapidly forward in 
the career her desires were fixed upon. But even at 
this moment her fond devotion to her mother was beau- 
tifully expressed, in some stanzas which she left where 
they would meet her eye as soon as the parting tears 
were wiped away. These stanzas are already published, 
and I shall only quote two from them, striking for their 
tenderness and truth. 

"To thee my lay is due, the simple song 

Which nature gave me at life's opening day ; 
To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong, 
Whose heart, indulgent, will not spurn my lay ! 

" O say, amid this wilderness of life 

What bosom would have throbbed like thine for me "i 
Who would have smiled responsive ? Who in grief 
Would e'er have felt, and, feeling, grieved like thee.'" 

The following extracts from her letters, which were 
always filled with yearnings for home, will show that her 
affections were the stronghold of her nature : — 

" Tt'oy Seminary, December ^tJi, 1824. — Here I am at 
last ; and what a naughty girl I was, when I was at 
Aunt Schuyler's, that I did not write you everything ! 
But to tell the truth, I was topsy-turvy, and so I am now ; 
but in despite of calls from the young ladies, and of a 
hundred new faces, and new names which are constantly 
ringing in my ears, I have set myself down, and will not 
rise until I have written an account of everything to my 
dear mother. I am contented ; yet, notwithstanding, I 
have once or twice turned a wishful glance towards my 



BIOGRAPHY OF LUC RETT A MARIA DAVIDSON. 25 1 

dear-loved home. Amidst all the parade of wealth, in 
the splendid apartments of luxury, I can assure you, my 
dearest mother, that I had rather be with you in our ozvn 
loivly lioiiic than in the midst of all this ceremony." 

" O mamma, I like Mrs. Willard. ' And so this is 
my girl, Mrs. Schuyler 1 ' said she, and took me affec- 
tionately by the hand. O, I want to see you so much ! 
But I must not think of it now. I must learn as fast as 
I can, and think only of my studies. Dear, dear little 
Margaret ! kiss her and the little boys for me. How is 
dear father getting on in this rattling world .'' " 

The letters that followed were tinged with melancholy 
from her " bosom's depth," and her mother has withheld 
them. In a subsequent one she says, " I have written 
two long letters ; but I wrote when I was ill, and they 
savor too much of sadness. I feel a little better now, 
and have again commenced my studies. Mr. K. called 
here to-day. O, he is very good ! He stayed some time, 
and brought a great many books ; but I fear I shall have 
little time to read aught but what appertains to my stud- 
ies. I am consulting Karnes's ' Elements of Criticism,' 
studying French, attending to geological lectures, com- 
position, reading, paying some little attention to painting, 
and learning to dance." 

A subsequent letter indicated great unhappiness and 
debility, and awakened her mother's apprehensions. 
The next was written more cheerfully. " As I fly to 
you," she says, " for consolation in all my sorrows, so I 
turn to you, my dear mother, to participate in all my 
joys. The clouds that enveloped my mind have dis- 
persed, and I turn to you with a far lighter heart than 



252 BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

when I last wrote. The ever kind Mr. K. called yester- 
day." She then describes the paternal interest he took 
in her health and happiness, expresses a trembling ap- 
prehension lest he should be disappointed in the amount 
of her improvement, and laments the loss of time from 
her frequent indisposition. " How, my dear mother," 
she says, " shall I express my gratitude to my kind, my 
excellent friend '^. What is felt as deeply as I feel this 
obligation, cannot be expressed : but I can feel, and do 
feel." It must be remembered that these were not for- 
mal and obligatory letters to her guardian, but the spon- 
taneous overflowing of her heart in her private corre- 
spondence with her mother. 

" We now begin to dread the examination. O, hor- 
rible ! seven weeks, and I shall be posted up before 
all Troy, all the students from Schenectady, and per- 
haps five hundred others. What shall I do ? 

" I have just received a note from Mr. K., in which 
he speaks of your having written to him of my illness. 
I was indeed ill, and very ill, for several days, and in 
my deepest dejection wrote to you ; but do not, my 
dearest mother, be alarmed about me. My appetite is 
not perfectly good, but quite as well as when I was 
at home. The letter was just such a one as was cal- 
culated to soothe my feelings, and set me completely 
at rest. He expressed a wish that my stay here should 
be prolonged. What think you, mother .'' I should be 
delighted by such an arrangement. This place really 
seems quite like home to me, though not my ozun 
dear home. I like Mrs. Willard, I love the girls, and 
I have the vanity to think I am not actually disagree- 
able to them." 



BIOGRAPHY OF LUC RETT A MARIA DAVIDSON. 253 

We come now to another expression (partly serious 
and partly bantering, for she seems to have uniformly 
respected her instructress) of her terrors of " exami- 
nation." 

" We are engaged, heart and hand, preparing for 
this awful examination. O, how I dread it ! But 
there is no retreat. I must stand firm to my post, or 
experience all the anger, vengeance, and punisiiments, 
which will, in case of delinquency or flight, be exercised 
with the most unforgiving acrimony. We are in such 
cases excommunicated, henceforth and forever, under 
the awful ban of holy Seminary ; and the evil eye of 
false report is upon us. O mamma, I do, though, jest- 
ing apart, dread this examination ; but nothing short 
of real and absolute sickness can excuse a scholar in 
the eyes of Mrs. Willard. Even that will not do it to 
the Trojan world around us ; for if a young lady is ill 
at examination, they say, with a sneer, ' O, she is ill 
of an examination fever ! ' Thus you see, mamma, we 
have no mercy either from friends or foes. We must 
' do or die! Tell Morris he must write to me. Kiss 
dear, dear little Margaret for me, and don't let her forget 
poor sister Lnly, and tell all who inquire for me that 
I am well, but in awful dread of a great examination." 

The following extract is from a letter to her friends, 
who had written under the impression that all letters 
received by the young ladies were, of course, read by 
some one of the officers of the institution : — 

" Lo ! just as I was descending from the third story 
(for you must know I hold my head high), your letter 
was put into my hands. Poor little wanderer ! I really 



254 BfOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON: 

felt a sisterly compassion for the poor little folded 
paper. I kissed it for the sake of those who sent it 
forth into the wide world, and put it into my bosom. 
But O, when I read it ! Now, Anne, I will tell you 
the truth ; it was cold ; perhaps it was written on one of 
your cold Canada days, or perchance it lost a little heat 
on the way. It did not seem to come from the very 
heart of hearts ; it looked as though it were written ' to 
a young lady at the Troy Seminary,' not to your dear, 
dear, dear sister Luly. Mr. K. has thus far been a father 
to me, and I thank him ; but I will not mock my feelings 
by attempting to say how much I thank him," 

" My dear mother ! O how I wish I could lay my head 
upon your bosom ! I hope you do not keep my letters, 
for I certainly have burned all yours ; * and I stood like a 
little fool and wept over their ashes ; and when I saw the 
last one gone, I felt as though I had parted with my last 
friend." Then, after expressing an earnest wish that 
her mother would destroy her letters, she says, " They 
have no connection. When I write, everything comes 
crowding upon me at once ; my pen moves too slow for 
my brain and my heart, and I feel vexed at myself, and 
tumble in everything together, and a choice medley you 
have of it ! 

" I attended Mr. Ball's public (assembly) last night, 
and had a delightful evening ; but now for something of 
more importance, — Ex-am-i-na-tion ! I had just begun 
to be engaged, heart and hand, preparing for it, when, 
by some means, I took a violent cold. I was unable to 
raise my voice above a whisper, and coughed incessantly. 

* This was in consequence of a positive command from her mother. 



B J OCR A PHY OF LUC RETT A MARIA DAVID SOX. 255 

On the second day, Mrs. Willard sent for Dr. Robbins ; 
he said I must be bled, and take an emetic ; this was 
sad ; but, O mamma, I could not speak or breathe with- 
out pain." There are further details of pains, remedies, 
and consequent exhaustion ; and yet this fragile and 
precious creature was permitted by her physician and 
friends, kind and watchful friends too, to proceed in her 
suicidal preparations for examination ! There was noth- 
ing uncommon in this injudiciousness. Such violations 
of the laws of our physical nature are every day com- 
mitted by persons in other respects the wisest and the 
best ; and our poor little martyr may not have suffered 
in vain, if her experience awakens attention to the sub- 
ject. 

In the letter from which we have quoted above, and 
which is filled with expressions of love for the dear ones 
at home, she continues : " Tell Morris I will answer his 
letter in full next quarter ; but now I fear I am doing 
wrong, for I am yet quite feeble ; and when I get 
stronger, I shall be very avaricious of my time, in order 
to prepare for the coming week. 

" We must study morning, noon, and night. / sJiall 
rise bctivcen tzvo and four noiu eveiy morning, till the 
dreaded day is past. I rose the other night at twelve, 
but was ordered back to bed again. You see, mamma, 
I shall have a chance to become an early riser here." 
" Had I not written you that I was coming home, I 
think I should not have seen you this winter. All my 
friends think I had better remain here, as the journey 
will be Ir.-ng and cold ; but O ! there is that at the jour- 
ney's end which would tempt me through the wilds of 



256 BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Siberia, — father, mother, brothers, sisters, //^;«^. Yes, I 
shall come." 

We insert some stanzas written about this time, not 
so much for their poetical merit as for the playful spirit 
that beams through them, and which seems like sun- 
beams smiling on a cataract. 

A WEEK BEFORE EXAMINATION. 

One has a headache, one a cold, 
One has her neck in flannel rolled ; 
Ask the complaint, and you are told, 

" Next week's examination." 

One frets and scolds, and laughs and cries ; 
Another hopes, despairs, and sighs ; 
Ask but the cause, and each replies, 

" Next week's examination." 

One bans her books, then grasps them tight, 
And studies morning, noon, and night. 
As though she took some strange delight 
In these examinations. 

The books are marked, defaced, and thumbed, 
The brains with midnight tasks benumbed. 
Still all in that account is summed, 

" Next week's examination." 

In a letter, February loth, she says, " The dreaded 
work of examination is now going on, my dear mother. 
To-morrow evening, which will be the last, and is always 
the most crowded, is the time fixed upon for my entree 
upon the field of action. O ! I hope I shall not disgrace 
myself It is the rule here to reserve the best classes 
till the last ; so I suppose I may take it as a compliment 
that we are delayed." 



BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSOM. 257 

" February 1 2th. — The examination is over. E 

E did herself and her native village honor ; but as 

for your poor Luly, she acquitted herself, I trust, de- 
cently ! O mamma, I was so frightened ! but, although 
my face glowed and my voice trembled, I did make out 
to get through, for I knew my lessons. The room was 
crowded almost to suffocation. All was still, — the fall- 
of a pin could have been heard, — and I tremble when I 
think of it even now." No one can read these melan- 
choly records without emotion. 

Pier visit home during the vacation was given up, in 
compliance with the advice of her guardian. " I wept a 
good long hour or so," she says, with her characteristic 
gentle acquiescence, " and then made up my mind to be 
content." 

In her next letter she relates an incident very striking 
in her eventful life. 

It occurred in returning to Troy, after her vacation, 
passed happily with her friends in the vicinity. " Uncle 
went to the ferry with me," she says, " where we met 
Mr. Paris. Uncle placed me under his care, and, snugly ■ 
seated by his side, I expected a very pleasant ride with 
a very pleasant gentleman. All was pleasant, except 
that we expected every instant that all the ice in the 
Hudson would come drifting against us, and shut in 
scow, stage, and all, or sink us to the bottom, which, in 
either case, you know, mother, would not have been 
quite so agreeable. We had just pushed from the shore. 
I watching the ice with anxious eyes, when, lo ! the two 
leaders made a tremendous plunge, and tumbled head- 
long into the river. I felt the carriage following fast 



258 BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

after ; the other two horses pulled back with all their 
power, but the leaders were dragging them down, dash- 
ing" and plunging, and flouncing in the water. 'Mr. Paris, 
in mercy let us get out ! ' said I. But, as he did not see 
the horses, he felt no alarm. The moment I informed 
him they were overboard, he opened the door, and cried, 
' Get out and save yourself, if possible ; I am old and 
stiff, but I will follow in an instant.' ' Out with the lady ! 
let the lady out ! ' shouted several voices at once ; ' the 
other horses are about. to plunge, and then all will be 
over.' I made a lighter spring than many a lady does in 
a cotillon, and jumped upon a cake of ice. Mr. Paris 
followed, and we stood (I trembling like a leaf) expect- 
ing every instant that the next plunge of the drowning 
horses would detach the piece of ice upon which we 
were standing, and send us adrift ; but, thank Heaven, 
after working for ten or fifteen minutes, by dint of ropes, 
and cutting them away from the other horses, they 
dragged the poor creatures out, more dead than alive. 

" Mother, don't you think I displayed some courage .-' 
I jumped into the stage again, and shut the door, while 
Mr. Paris remained outside, watching the movement of 
affairs. We at length reached here, and I am alive, as 
you see, to tell the story of my woes." 

In her next letter she details a conversation with Mrs, 
Willard, full of kind commendation and good counsel. 
" Mamma," she concludes, " you would be justified in 
thinking me a perfect lump of vanity and egotism ; but 
I have always related to you every thought, every action, 
of my life. I have. had no concealments from you, and I 
have stated these matters to you because they fill me 



BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MART A DAVIDSON. 259 

with surprise. Who would think the accompHshed Mrs. 
Willard would admire my poor daubing, or my poor any- 
thing else ! O dear mamma, I am so happy now ! so 
contented ! Every unusual movement startles me. I 
am constantly afraid of something to mar it." 

The next extract is from a letter, the emanation of her 
affectionate spirit, to a favorite brother seven years old. 

" Dear L , I am obliged to you for your two very 

interesting epistles, and much doubt whether I could 
spell more ingeniously myself. Really, I have some idea 
of sending them to the printers, to be struck off in imi- 
tation of a Chinese puzzle. Your questions about the 
stars I have been cogitating some time past, and am of 
the opinion that if there are beings inhabiting those 
heavenly regions, they must be content to feed, chame- 
leon-like, upon air ; for even were we disposed to spare 
them a portion of our earth sufficient to plant a garden, 
I doubt whether the attraction of gravitation would not 
be too strong for resistance, and the unwilling clod re- 
turn to its pale brethren of the valley ' to rest in ease in- 
glorious.' So far from burning your precious letters, my 
dear little brother, I carefully preserve them in a little 
pocket-book ; and when I feel lonely and desolate, and 
think of my dear home, I turn them over and over again. 
Do write often, my sweet ' little correspondent, and be- 
lieve me," etc., etc. 

Her next letter to her mother, written in March, was 
in a melancholy strain ; but as if to avert her parent's 
consequent anxieties, she concludes : — 

" I hope you will feel no concern for my health or hap- 
piness. Do, my dear mother, try to be cheerful, and 
have sood courage." 



26o BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

" I have been to the Rensselaer school, to attend the 
philosophical lectures. They are delivered by the cele- 
brated Mr. Eaton, who has several students, young gen- 
tlemen. I hope they will not lose their hearts among 
twenty or thirty pretty girls. For my part, I kept my 
eyes fixed as fast as might be upon the good old lecturer, 
as I am of the opinion that he is the best possible safe- 
guard, with his philosophy and his apparatus ; for you 
know philosophy and love are sworn enemies ! " 

Miss Davidson returned to Plattsburg during the 
spring vacation. Her mother, when the first rapture of 
reunion was over, the first joy at finding her child un- 
changed in the modesty and naturalness of her deport- 
ment, and fervor of her affections, became alarmed at 
the indications of disease, in the extreme fragility of her 
person, and the deep and fluctuating color of her cheek. 
Lucretia insisted, and, deceived by that ever-deceiving 
disease, believed she was well. She was gay and full 
of hope, and could hardly be persuaded to submit to 
her father's medical prescriptions ; but the well-known 
crimson spot, that so often flushed her cheek, was re- 
garded by him with the deepest anxiety, and he shortly 
called counsel. During her stay at home she wrote a 
great deal. Like the bird, which is to pass away with 
the summer, she seems to have been ever on the wing, 
pouring forth the spontaneous melodies of her soul. 

The physician called in to consult with her father 
was of opinion that a change of air and scene would 
probably restore her, and it was decided, in compliance 
with her own wishes, that she should return to school. 

Miss Gilbert's boarding-school, at Albany, was se- 



BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 261 

lected for the next six months. There are few more of 
her productions of any sort, and they seem to us to have 
the sweetness of the last roses of summer. The follow- 
ing playful passages are from her last letter at home to 
her sister in Canada : — 

" The boat will be here in an hour or two, and I am 
all ready to start. O, I am half sick. I have taken sev- 
eral doses of something quite delectable for a visiting 
treat. Now," she concludes her letter, " by your affec- 
tion for me, by your pity for the wanderer, by your re- 
membrance of the absent, by your love for each other, 
and by all that is sacred to an absent friend, I charge 
you, write to me, and write often. As ye hope to pros- 
per, as ye hope your boy to prosper (and grow fat !), as 
ye hope for my gratitude and affection now and here- 
after, I charge you write. If ye sinfully neglect this last 
solemn injunction of a parting friend, my injured spirit 
will visit you in your transgressions. It shall pierce you 
with goose-quills, and hurl down upon your recreant 
heads the brimming contents of the neglected inkstand. 
This is my threat, and this is my vengeance. But if, on 
the contrary, ye shall see fit to honor me with numerous 
epistles, which shall be duly answered, know ye, that I 
will live and love you, and not only you, but your boy ! 
So, you see, upon your own bearing depends the future 
fate of the little innocent, * to be beloved, or not to be 
beloved ! ' They have come ! Farewell, a long fare- 
well ! " 

She proceeded to Albany, and in a letter dated May 
1 2th, 1825, she seems delighted with her reception, ac- 
commodations, and prospects at Miss Gilbert's school. 



262 BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

She has yet no anxieties about her health, and enters 
on her career of study with her customary ardor. With 
the most dehcate health and constant occupation, she 
found time always to write long letters to her mother 
and the little children at home, filled with fond expres- 
sions. What an example and rebuke to the idle school- 
girl who finds no time for these minor duties ! But her 
studies, to which she applied herself beyond her strength, 
from the conscientious fear of not fulfilling the expecta- 
tions of her friends, were exhausting the sources of life. 
Her letters teem with expressions of gratitude to her 
friend Mr. K., to Miss Gilbert, and to all the friends 
around her. She complains of debility and want .of ap- 
petite, but imputes all her ailings to not hearing regu- 
larly from home. The mails were of course at fault, for 
her mother's devotion never intermitted. The following 
expressions will show that her sensibility, naturally acute, 
was rendered intense by physical disease and suffering. 

" O my dear mother, cannot you send your Luly one 
line .' Not one word in two weeks ! I have done noth- 
ing but weep all day long. I feel so wretchedly ! I am 
afraid you are ill. 

" I am very wretched, indeed T am. My dear mother, 
am I never to hear from you again } I am homesick. I 
know I am foolish ; but I cannot help it. To tell the 
truth, I am half sick. 1 am so weak, so languid, I cannot 
eat. I am nervous, I know I am ; I weep most of the 
time. I have blotted the paper so, that I cannot write. 
I cannot study much longer, if I do not hear from you." 

Letters from home renovated her for a few days ; and 
at Mr. K.'s request, she went to the theatre, and gave 



BIOGRAPHY OF LUCK-ETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 263 

herself up, with all the freshness of youthful feeling, to 
the spells of the drama, and raved about Hamlet and 
Ophelia like any other school-girl. 

But her next letter recurs to her malady, and for the 
first time she expresses a fear that her disease is beyond 
the reach of common remedies. Her mother was 
alarmed, and would have gone immediately to her, but 
she was herself confined to her room by illness. Her 
father's cooler judgment inferred, from their receiving no 
letters from Lucretia's friends, that there was nothing 
immediately alarming in her symptoms. 

The next letter removed every doubt. It was scarcely 
legible ; still she assures her mother she is better, and 
begs she will not risk the consequences of a long journey. 
But neither health nor life weighed now with the mother 
against seeing her child. She set off, and, by appoint- 
ment, joined Mr. K. at Whitehall. They proceeded 
thence to Albany, where, after the first emotions of meet- 
ing were over, Lucretia said, " O mamma, I thought I 
should never have seen you again ! But, now I have you 
here, and can lay my aching head upon your bosom, I 
shall soon be better." 

For a few days the balm seemed effectual ; she was 
better, and the physicians believed she would recover ; 
but her mother was no longer to be persuaded from her 
conviction of the fatal nature of the disease, and arrange- 
ments were immediately made to convey her to Platts- 
burg. The journey was effected, notwithstanding it was 
during the heats of July, with less physical suffering 
than was apprehended. She shrank painfully from the 
gaze her beauty inevitably attracted, heightened as it 



264 BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON: 

was by that disease which seems to dehght to deck the 
victim for its triumph. " Her joy upon finding herself 
at home," says her mother, " operated for a time hke 
magic." The sweet health-giving influence of domestic 
love, the home atmosphere, seemed to suspend the prog- 
ress of her disease, and again her father, brothers, and 
friends were deluded ; all but the mother and the suf- 
ferer. She looked, with prophetic eye, calmly to the end. 
There was nothing to disturb her. That kingdom that 
Cometh " without observation " was within her ; and she 
was only about to change its external circumstances, 
about to put off the harness of life in which she had been 
so patient and obedient. To the last she manifested her 
love of books. A trunk filled with them had not been 
unpacked. She requested her mother to open it at her 
bedside ; and as each book was given to her, she turned 
over the leaves, kissed it, and desired to have it placed 
on a table at the foot of her bed. There they remained 
to the last, her eye often fondly resting on them. 

She expressed a strong desire to see Mr. Kent once 
more, and a fear that though he had been summoned, he 
might not arrive in time. He came, however, to receive 
the last expressions of her gratitude, and to hear his 
own name the last pronounced by her lips. 

The " Fear of Madness " was written by her while 
confined to her bed, and was the last piece she ever 
wrote. It constitutes a part of the history of her dis- 
ease, and will, for this reason alone, if no other, be read 
with interest. 

That the records of the last scenes of Lucretia David- 
son's life are scanty, is not surprising.- The materials 



BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSOX. 265 

for this memoir, it must be remembered, were furnished 
by her mother. A victim stretclied on the rack cannot 
keep records. She says, in* general terms, " Lucretia 
frequently spoke to me of her approaching dissolution 
with perfect calmness, and as an event that must soon 
take place. In a conversation with Mr. Townsend, held 
at intervals, as her strength would permit, she expressed 
the sentiments she expressed to me before she grew so 
weak. She declared her firm faith in the Christian re- 
ligion, her dependence on the divine promises, which she 
said had consoled and sustained her during her illness. 
She said her hopes of salvation were grounded on the 
merits of her Saviour, and that death, which had once 
looked so dreadful to her, was now divested of all its 
terrors." 

Welcome, indeed, should that messenger have been 
that opened the gates of knowledge and blissful immor- 
tality to such a spirit ! 

During Miss Davidson's residence in Albany, which 
was less than three months, she wrote several miscel- 
laneous pieces, and began a long poem, divided into 
cantos, and entitled " Maritorne, or the Pirate of Mex- 
ico." This she deemed better than anything she had 
previously produced. The amount of her compositions, 
considering the shortness and multifarious occupations 
of a life of less than seventeen years, is surprising. 

We copy the subjoined paragraph from the biograph-' 
ical sketch prefixed to " Amir Khan." " Her poetical 
writings, which have been collected, amount in all to two 
hundred and seventy-eight pieces, of various lengths. 
When it is considered that there are among these at 



266 BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

least five regular poems, of several cantos each, some 
estimate may be formed of her poetical labors. Besides 
these were twenty-four school exercises, three unfinished 
romances, a complete tragedy, written at thirteen years 
of age, and about forty letters, in a few months, to her 
mother alone." This statement does not comprise the 
large proportion (at least one third of the whole) which 
she destroyed. 

The genius of Lucretia Davidson has had the meed 
of far more authoritative praise than ours. The follow- 
ing tribute is from the " London Quarterly Review," a 
source whence praise of American productions is as rare 
as springs in the desert. The notice is by Mr. Southey, 
and is written with the earnest feeling that characterizes 
that author, as generous as he is discriminating. " In 
these poems," ("Amir Khan," etc.) "there is enough of 
originality, enough of aspiration, enough of conscious 
energy, enough of growing power, to warrant any ex- 
pectations, however sanguine, which the patrons, and the 
friends, and parents of the deceased could have formed." 

But, prodigious as the genius of this young creature 
was, still marvelous after all the abatements that may be 
made for precociousness and morbid development, there 
is something yet more captivating -in her moral loveli- 
ness. Her modesty was not the infusion of another 
mind, not the result of cultivation, not the effect of good 
taste ; nor was it a veil cautiously assumed and grace- 
fully worn ; but an innate quality, that made her shrink 
from incense, even though the censer were sanctified by 
love. Her mind was lil<;e the exquisite mirror, that can- 
not be stained by human breath. 



BIOGRAPHY OF LUC RETT A MARIA DAVIDSOiV. 267 

Few may have been gifted with her genius, but all can 
imitate her virtues. There is a universality in the holy 
sense of duty that regulated her life. Few young ladies 
will be called on to renounce the Muses for domestic du- 
ties ; but many may imitate Lucretia Davidson's meek 
self-sacrifice, by relinquishing some favorite pursuit, some 
darling object, for the sake of an humble and unpraised 
duty ; and, if few can attain her excellence, all may imi- 
tate her in gentleness, humility, industry, and fidelity to 
her domestic aft'ections. We may apply to her the beau- 
tiful lines in which she describes one of those 

" forms, that, wove in Fancy's loom, 

Float in light visions round the poet's head." 

" She was a being formed to love and bless. 
With lavish Nature's richest loveliness ; 
Such I have often seen in Fancy's eye, 
Beings too bright for dull mortality. 
I've seen them in the visions of the night, 
I've faintly seen them when enough of light 
And dim distinctness gave them to my gaze. 
As forms of other worlds or brighter days." 

This memoir may be fitly concluded by the following 
" Tribute to the Memory of my Sister," by Margaret 
Davidson, who was but two years old at the time of 
Lucretia's death, and whom she often mentions with 
peculiar fondness. The lines were written at the age qf 
eleven. May we be allowed to say, that the mantle of 
the elder sister has fallen on the younger, and that she 
seems to be a second impersonation of her spirit .'' 

" Though thy freshness and beauty are laid in the tomb. 
Like the floweret which drops in its verdure and bloom ; 



2 68 BIOGRAPHY OF LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Though the halls of thy childhood now mourn thee in vain, 
And thy strains shall ne'er waken their echoes again, — 
Still o'er the fond memory they silently glide, 
Still, still thou art ours, and America's pride. 
Sing on, thou pure seraph, with harmony crowned. 

And pour the full tide of thy music along ; 
O'er the broad arch of heaven the sweet note sliall resound, 

And a bright choir of angels shall echo the song. 
The pure elevation which beamed from thine eye, 
As it turned to its home in yon fair azure sky, 
Told of something unearthly ; it shone with the light 
Of pure inspiration and holy delight. 
Round the rose that is withered a fragrance remains ; 
O'er beauty in ruins the mind proudly reigns. 
Thy lyre has resounded o'er ocean's broad wave, 
And the tear of deep anguish been shed o'er thy grave ; 
But thy spirit has mounted to mansions on high. 
To the throne of its God, where it never can die." 




NOTES TO AMIR KHAN. 



1 Beneath calm Cashmere's lovely vale, &c. " Cashinerc, called the happy 
valley, the garden in perpetual spring, and the Paradise of India." 
'^ The biilbiil, with his lay of love, &c. " The Bulbul, or Nightingale." 
^ The gtdnare blusli'd a deeper hue, &c. " Gulnare, or Rose." 
•* The lofty plane-tree's haughty brow, &c. " The Plane-tree, that species 
termed Plataims orientalis, is commonly cultivated in Cashmere, where it 
is said to arrive at a greater perfection than in any other country, This 
tree, which in most parts of Asia is called the Chinur, grows to the size of 
an oak, and has a taper, straight trunk, with a silver-colored bark, and its' 
leaf, not unlike an expanded hand, is of a pale green. When in full foliage 
it has a grand and beautiful appearance, and in hot weather affords a re- 
freshing shade." — Foster. 

^ And wide the plantain's arms were spread, &c. " Plantain-trees are sup- 
posed to prevent the plague from visiting places where thev are found in 
abundance." — Middleton's Geography. 

** Knelt the once haughty Subahdar, &c. " Subahdar, or Governor." 

" Since Amir Khan first bcessed the hour, &c. " To the east of this de- 
lightful spot is a fortified palace, erected by Amir Khan, a Persian, who 
was once Governor of Cashmere. He used to pass much of his time in 
this residence, which was curiously adapted to every species of Asiatic 
luxury.". See Encyclopedia, vol. v. part 2. 

•^ Through the long walks of tzinnar-trees, &c. . " Their walks are cu- 
riously laid out, and set on both sides with tzinnar-trees, a species of poplar 
unknown in Europe. It grows to the height of a pine, and bears a fruit 
resembling the chestnut, and it has broad leaves like those of the vine." — 
Middleton' s Geography. 

^ As it glides o'er the wave of the Wuller's stream, &c. " A beautiful river 
passes through Cashmere, called the Ouller, or Wtdler. There is an outlet, 



270 NOTES rOAMIR KHAN 

where it runs with greater rapidity and force than elsewhere, between two 
steep mountains, whence proceeding, after a long course, it joins with the 
Chelum." 

^'^ And like a star 01 Mahnioud^s wave, &c. '' It appears like a lake 
covered with rocks and mountains. Stones, when thrown in, make a sur- 
prising noise, and the river itself is deemed unfathomable." — Middleton's 
Geography. 

11 Proud Hintey Pm-vit rears his head, &c. " There is an oval lake, 
which joins the Chelum towards the east. The Yiicht Snliman and Hir- 
ney Purvit form the two sides of what may be called a grand portal to the 
lake. They are hills ; one of which is sacred to the great Solyman." 







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